UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


HAWTHORNE'S  WORKS 

WITH  1        ItOntJCTIONB  BY 

KATi^         E  LEE    BATES 

r  oi   Kiigli  .ratlin-  in  Wcllesley  College 


from  an 


THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

PUBLISHERS       :       :       :       NEW  YORK 


MOSSES    FROM    AN 

OLD    MANSE 


VOL.  I. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900  AND  1902, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION v 

THE  OLD  MANSE .        .        .        .  i 

THE  BIRTH-MARK 31 

A  SELECT  PARTY '5° 

YOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN     .*  v*  yv  V^v*^  .*~l'*18ua--*,Vvuv .  66  < 

RAPPACCINI'S  DAUGHTER      .        .     " 81 

MRS.  BULLFROG 114 

FIRE-WORSHIP  f 122 

BUDS  AND  BIRD-VOICES 131 

MONSIEUR  DU  MIROIR 141 

THE  HALL  OF  FANTASY 153 

s  THE  CELESTIAL  RAILROAD 166 

THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE 185 

-f  FEATHERTOP  . 200 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  sombre  hues  of  the  Twice-Told  Tales  are  inten- 
sified in  the  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse ;  the  themes, 
unvaried  in  general  character,  probe  still  deeper  into 
the  mysteries  of  sin  and  sorrow ;  yet  the  interval  be- 
tween the  publication  of  that  first  volume  of  the  Tales, 
in  1837,  and  the  appearance  of  the  Mosses,  in  1846,  had 
brought  to  Hawthorne  supreme  joys  of  love,  marriage, 
and  fatherhood.  Morbid  thoughts  and  feelings  had  been 
born  of  the  long  seclusion  in  which  his  genius  ripened. 
He  chose  to  fancy,  in  one  of  the  magazine  sketches 
which  he  did  not  republish,  Fragments  from  the  Jozirnal 
of  a  Solitary  Man,  that  "  Oberon  "  had  died  in  youth. 
^Esthetic  fairy  that  he  was,  this  seemed  to  him  not  at 
all  amiss,  for  he  had  dreaded  the  unloveliness  of  old 
age,  and  often,  gazing  on  his  reflection  in  the  glass,  had 
shuddered  at  the  fancy  of  yellowed  cheeks  and  wrinkled 
brow,  and  preferred  to  change  this  vision  for  "  the  dead 
face  of  a  young  man,  with  dark  locks  clustering  heavily 
round  its  pale  beauty,"  but  nevertheless  he  lamented 
the  end  that  must  cut  short  his  hopes  of  travel,  fame, 
and  love. 

"  It  is  hard  to  die  without  one's  happiness ;  to  none 
more  so  than  myself,  whose  early  resolution  it  had  been 
to  partake  largely  of  the  joys  of  life,  but  never  to  be 
burdened  with  its  cares.  Vain  philosophy !  The  very 
hardships  of  the  poorest  laborer,  whose  whole  existence 
seems  one  long  toil,  has  something  preferable  to  my 
best  pleasures.  Merely  skimming  the  surface  of  life,  I 
know  nothing,  by  my  own  experience,  of  its  deep  and 
warm  realities.  I  have  achieved  none  of  those  objects 
which  the  instinct  of  mankind  especially  prompts  them 
to  pursue,  and  the  accomplishment  of  which  must  there- 
fore beget  a  native  satisfaction.  The  truly  wise,  after 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

all  their  speculations,  will  be  led  into  the  common  path, 
and,  in  homage  to  the  human  nature  that  pervades  them, 
will  gather  gold,  and  till  the  earth,  and  set  out  trees, 
and  build  a  house.  But  I  have  scorned  such  wisdom. 
I  have  rejected,  also,  the  settled,  sober,  careful  glad- 
ness of  a  man  by  his  own  fireside,  with  those  around 
him  whose  welfare  is  committed  to  his  trust  and  all 
their  guidance  to  his  fond  authority.  Without  influence 
among  serious  affairs,  my  footsteps  were  not  imprinted 
on  the  earth,  but  lost  in  air;  and  I  shall  leave  no  son 
to  inherit  my  share  of  life,  with  a  better  sense  of  its 
privileges  and  duties,  when  his  father  should  vanish  like 
a  bubble ;  so  that  few  mortals,  even  the  humblest  and 
the  weakest,  have  been  such  ineffectual  shadows  in  the 
world,  or  die  so  utterly  as  I  must.  Even  a  young  man's 
bliss  has  not  been  mine.  With  a  thousand  vagrant  fan- 
tasies, I  have  never  truly  loved,  and  perhaps  shall  be 
doomed  to  loneliness  throughout  the  eternal  future,  be- 
cause, here  on  earth,  my  soul  has  never  married  itself 
to  the  soul  of  woman." 

The  character  of  these  "  vagrant  fantasies "  is  indi- 
cated in  a  passage  of  lighter  tenor,  never  reprinted,  — 
two  paragraphs  that  formed  the  original  opening  of 
The  Vision  of  the  Fountain :  — 

"  Dear  ladies,  could  I  but  look  into  your  eyes,  like  a 
star-gazer,  I  might  read  secret  intelligences.  Will  you 
read  what  I  have  written  ?  You  love  music  and  the 
dance  and  are  passionate  for  flowers;  you  sometimes 
cherish  singing-birds,  and  sometimes  young  kittens. 
You  sigh  by  moonlight.  Once  or  twice  you  have  wept 
over  a  love-story  in  the  annuals.  Sleep  falls  upon  you, 
like  a  lace  veil,  rich  with  gold-embroidered  dreams,  and 
is  withdrawn-  as  lightly,  that  you  may  see  brighter 
dreams  than  those.  Maiden  pursuits,  and  gentle  medi- 
tations, the  sunshine  of  maiden  glee,  and  the  summer- 
cloud  of  maiden  sadness  —  these  make  up  the  tale  of 
your  happy  years.  You  are  in  your  spring,  fair  reader, 
are  you  not  ?  I  am  scarce  in  my  summer  time.  Yet  I 
have  wandered  through  the  world,  till  its  weary  dust 
has  settled  on  me;  and  when  I  meet  a  bright,  young 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

girl,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  with  her  untouched  heart,  so 
sweetly  proud,  so  softly  glorious,  so  fresh  among  faded 
things,  I  fancy  that  the  gate  of  Paradise  has  been  left 
ajar,  and  she  has  stolen  out.  Then  I  give  a  sigh  to  the 
memory  of  Rachel. 

"  Oh,  Rachel !  How  pleasant  is  the  sound  to  me,  thy 
sweet  old  scriptural  name !  As  I  repeat  it,  thoughts 
and  feelings  grow  vivid  again,  which  I  deemed  long  ago 
forgotten.  There  they  are,  yet  in  my  heart,  like  the 
initials  and  devices  engraved  by  virgin  fingers  in  the 
wood  of  a  young  tree,  remaining  deep  and  permanent, 
though  concealed  by  the  furrowed  bark  of  after  years. 
The  boy  of  fifteen  was  handsome,  though  you  would 
shake  your  head,  could  you  glance  at  the  altered  fea- 
tures of  the  man.  And  the  boy  had  lofty,  sweet,  and 
tender  thoughts,  and  dim,  but  glorious  visions ;  he  was 
a  child  of  poetry." 

It  was  clearly  high  time  that  the  sunshine  of  common 
life  melt  this  enchanted  castle  of  sentiment  and  revery. 
In  a  happy  hour  Hawthorne  called  on  his  neighbors, 
the  Peabodys,  and  fell  in  love  with  the  invalid  daughter, 
who,  like  another  Elizabeth  Barrett,  responded  to  the 
joy-cure.  Pending  her  recovery,  the  rarest  genius  of 
the  land,  eager  to  prepare  a  home,  gained  from  a  Demo- 
cratic administration  the  privilege  of  weighing  coal  in 
the  Boston  Custom-house,  "a  very  black  business."  The 
Whigs  promptly  turned  him  out,  and  in  1842,  after  a 
taste  of  Brook  Farm,  Hawthorne  brought  his  bride  to 
the  Old  Manse,  where  they  lived  in  the  happiness  that 
"is  a  part  of  eternity,"  and  where,  for  some  four  years, 
he  made  a  manful,  unavailing  effort  to  support  a  frugal 
little  family  by  the  pen. 

The  first  volume  of  Twice-Told  Tales  had  been  issued 
by  aid  of  Hawthorne's  college  friend,  Horatio  Bridge, 
—  true  Horatio  to  this  Hamlet,  —  who  guaranteed  the 
publishers  against  loss.  It  was  several  years  before 
the  sales  covered  expenses,  and  meanwhile  the  author's 
profits  were  all  in  the  airy  coin  of  reputation,  not  cur- 
rent in  the  corner  grocery.  A  few  reviews  welcomed, 
not  too  enthusiastically,  the  work  of  this  "  graceful  and 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

graphic  pen,"  and  assured  Hawthorne  that  he  wrote 
better  than  Willis,  almost  as  well  as  Longfellow,  whose 
fame  then  chiefly  rested  on  Outre-Mer,  that  his  style 
had  a  touch  of  Lamb  and  was  even  remotely  suggestive 
of  Irving.  One  critic,  impressed  by  the  melancholy 
tone  of  the  tales,  pictured  their  writer  as  "  a  stricken 
deer  in  the  forest  of  life  " ;  and  another  regretted  that, 
in  America,  only  the  gentle  types  of  mind  took  to 
authorship,  while  business  and  politics  absorbed  the 
robust  intellect  of  the  country.  "  Never  can  a  nation 
be  impregnated  with  the  literary  spirit  by  minor  authors 
alone.  They  may  ripple  and  play  round  the  heart  and 
ensnare  the  affections  in  their  placid  flow,  but  the 
national  mind  and  imagination  are  to  be  borne  along 
only  on  the  ocean-stream  of  a  great  genius.  Yet  men 
like  Hawthorne  are  not  without  their  use."  Longfellow 
gave  the  little  volume  friendly  greeting  in  the  North 
American  Review,  claiming  for  it  "the  freshness  of 
jnorning  and  of  May,"  and  noting  with  generous  appre- 
ciation the  "bright,  poetic  style,"  "quiet  humor,"  and 
"  vein  of  pleasant  philosophy."  But  although  praise 
might  butter  the  bread,  there  must  be  bread  to  butter. 

Hawthorne  was  now  enabled,  however,  to  break  loose 
from  his  dependence  on  "  Peter  Parley  "  and  The  Token. 
After  his  promised  contribution  of  five  tales  to  The 
Token  for  1838,  the  annuals  knew  him  no  more.  For 
another  decade  or  so  these  evanescent  flowers  of  lit- 
erature blossomed  in  our  Christmas  snows,  —  Lily,  Vio- 
let, Moss-rose,  Morning-glory,  Wintergrecn,  Winter-bloom, 
Mayflower,  Magnolia,  Hyacinth,  Rose  of  Sharon,  Passion 
Flower,  Amarinth,  but  not  even  The  Dewdrop  might 
mirror  Hawthorne's  musing  smile.  He  had  found  more 
dignified  and  more  profitable  market  for  his  dreams  in 
a  new  periodical,  The  United  States  Magazine  and 
Democratic  Review,  a  monthly  of  national  pretensions. 
The  editors  had  engaged  Hawthorne,  at  the  outset,  as 
a  regular  contributor,  and  for  a  while  he  averaged  an 
article  in  every  other  issue.  In  1839  ancl  l84O>  when, 
as  he  said,  he  was  "  murdering  so  many  of  the  brightest 
hours  of  the  day  at  the  custom-house,"  the  number  of 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

his  contributions  fell  off  to  one  a  year.  In  1843,  when 
happily  established  at  the  Old  Manse,  he  supplied  an 
article  for  every  month  from  February  through  August, 
but  not,  apparently,  without  feeling  the  pressure.  At 
all  events,  his  contribution  for  August,  "  Roger  Malvin's 
Burial,"  had  appeared  in  The  Token  for  1832,  and  his 
contribution  for  July,  "The  Two  Widows,"  merely  re- 
produced, under  a  title  that  seems  to  have  suffered  a 
prose  translation,  "The  Wives  of  the  Dead,"  originally 
printed  in  that  same  issue  of  Goodrich's  annual.  The 
tales  for  the  next  year  are  fewer,  but  still  in  his  richest 
vein.  The  editors,  not  able  to  pay  him  as  well  as  they 
had  hoped,  made  what  amends  they  could  by  a  eulogistic 
notice  in  the  April  number,  1845,  "manufacturing"  him 
"  into  a  Personage."  Hawthorne's  contributions  to  the 
Democratic  Review,  as  to  other  periodicals  after  1837, 
are  signed,  as  a  rule,  with  his  own  name.  The  memo- 
rial notice  of  Jonathan  Cilley  is  anonymous.  "  Chippings 
with  a  Chisel"  appears  as  by  the  "Author  of  Twice- 
Told  Tales"  and  "John  Inglefield's  Thanksgiving" 
(March,  1840)  would  pass  itself  off  as  by  the  Rev.  A.  A. 
Royce.  The  Democratic  Review,  notwithstanding  its'" 
financial  embarrassments,  had  a  proud  roll  of  contribu- 
tors, including  Bryant,  Whittier,  Emerson,  Thoreau, 
Lowell,  Longfellow,  Cranch,  Curtis,  Poe.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's "  Drama  of  Exile "  was  published  here.  But 
Hawthorne,  with  the  wolf  baying  softly  at  the  door  of 
the  Old  Manse,  did  not  disdain  less  weighty  periodi- 
cals. "Ethan  Brand,  or  the  Unpardonable  Sin,"  for 
instance,  stands  as  the  opening  story  in  Holderis  Dollar 
Magazine  (May,  1851),  fronted  by  a  frightful  illustra- 
tion. Of  the  twenty  sketches  garnered  in  the  second 
volume  of  the  Twice-Told  Tales,  1842,  only  seven  arex 
chosen  from  the  Democratic  Review.  These  are  "Howe's 
Masquerade"  (May,  1838);  "Edward  Randolph's  Por- 
trait" (July,  1838);  "Lady  Eleanore's  Mantle"  (De- 
cember, 1838);  "Old  Esther  Dudley"  (January,  1839); 
"Footprints  on  the  Seashore"  (January,  1838);  "Snow- 
flakes  "  (February,  1838);  "Chippings  with  a  Chisel" 
(September,  1838).  To  these  Hawthorne  added  four 


x  INTRODUCTION 

stories  from  The  Token  for  1838, — "Peter  Goldthwaite's 
Treasure,"  "  The  Shaker  Bridal,"  "  Night  Sketches  be- 
neath an  Umbrella,"  "  Endicott  and  the  Red  Cross." 
He  harked  back  to  The  Token  of  1833  for  "The  Seven 
Vagabonds,"  to  The  Token  of  1835  for  "The  Haunted 
Mind"  and  "The  Village  Uncle,"  and  to  The  New 
England  Magazine  of  1835  for  "  The  Ambitious  Guest" 
(June)  and  "The  White  Old  Maid"  (July).  "Edward 
Fane's  Rosebud"  was  reclaimed  from  The  Knickerbocker 
(September,  1837),  and  "The  Threefold  Destiny"  from 
The  American  Monthly  Magazine  (March,  1838),  where 
it  was  signed  Ashley  Allen  Royce.  "The  Lily's  Quest" 
seems  to  have  been  drawn  by  flowery  sympathies  to 
The  Southern  Rose,  a  Charleston  weekly  edited  by  Mrs. 
Caroline  Gilman,  a  lady  of  Boston  family.  Our  "  apo- 
logue "  has  the  place  of  honor  in  the  issue  of  January 
J9>  I^39.  This  is  far  afield  for  Hawthorne,  to  whom 
the  editorial  attention  may  have  been  turned  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  Southern  planter.  This  travelled  gen- 
tleman, in  March  of  the  same  year,  describes  through 
the  columns  of  the  little  magazine  "  A  Day  of  Disap- 
pointment in  Salem."  Thither  he  had  repaired,  de- 
lighted by  Twice-  Told  Tales,  as  brought  him  in  a  Boston 
book-store  by  "the  graceful  and  obliging  shop-boy," 
and  eager  to  greet  the  author,  "  another  genuine  origi- 
nal on  this  threadbare  earth,"  but  had  failed  to  run  his 
lion  down.  One  sketch  is  still  unaccounted  for,  "  The 
Sister  Years,"  which  originally  appeared  in  a  "  fine  little 
pamphlet"  as  the  "Carrier's  Address"  (January  I,  1839), 
presented  by  the  newsboys  to  the  patrons  of  the  Salem 
Gazette.  The  address  for  1838,  "Time's  Portraiture," 
was  also  written  by  Hawthorne.  The  Miscellany  of 
this  very  readable  journal  kept  up  well  with  current 
literature,  quick  to  copy  such  unconscious  classics  as 
Thanatopsis,  Drake's  American  Flag,  The  Psalm  of 
Life,  and,  from  time  to  time,  new  tales  by  the  mod- 
est Salem  author,  in  whom  it  took  a  moderate  local 
pride. 

Four  years  later,  in  collecting  the  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse,   Hawthorne  sifted  his  early  writings   yet 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

again.  The  Token  for  1837  yielded  him  "Mrs.  Bull- 
frog," which  could  have  been  spared,  and  "  Monsieur 
Du  Miroir,"  while  "  Roger  Malvin's  Burial"  dates  from 
The  Token  for  1832.  The  New  England  Magazine 
gave  up,  under  title  of  "  Passages  from  a  Relinquished 
Work,"  the  first  chapters  of  "The  Story  Teller"  (Novem- 
ber and  December,  1834);  "Young  Goodman  Brown" 
(April,  1835);  an<l  "Sketches  from  Memory "  (Novem- 
ber and  December,  1835).  Of  these  three,  however, 
the  first  and  last  were  not  included  in  the  earlier  edi- 
tions. But  the  most  of  the  Mosses  are  gathered  from 
the  Democratic  Review,  —  "The  New  Adam  and  Eve" 
(February,  1843);  "Egotism,  or  the  Bosom  Serpent" 
(March,  1843);  "The  Procession  of  Life"  (April,  1843); 
"The  Celestial  Railroad"  (May,  1843);  "Buds  and  Bird 
Voices"  (June,  1843);  "Fire  Worship"  (December, 
1843);  "The  Christmas  Banquet"  (January,  1844); 
"The  Intelligence  Office"  (March,  1844);  "The  Artist 
of  the  Beautiful"  (June,  1844);  "A  Select  Party"  (July, 
1844);  "  Rappaccini's  Daughter"  (December,  1844); 
" P.'s  Correspondence"  (April,  1845).  For  the  rest, 
"The  Old  Apple-Dealer"  is  credited  by  the  Salem 
Gazette  of  December  27,  1842,  to  Sargent's  Magazine, 
which  I  have  not  found.  "  A  Virtuoso's  Collection  " 
opened  the  May  number  (1842)  of  the  Boston  Miscel- 
lany of  Literature  and  Fashion,  fronting  a  colored  fron- 
tispiece representing  the  latest  Paris  modes.  "  Earth's 
Holocaust"  was  the  leading  article  in  the  May  number 
of  Graham  s  Magazine,  1844,  and  "  Drowne's  Wooden 
Image "  condescended  to  Godey's  Lady's  Book  (July, 
1844).  A  magazine  of  higher  strain,  The  Pioneer,  which 
lived  only  through  the  first  three  months  of  1843,  pub- 
lished in  its  February  number  "  The  Hall  of  Fantasy," 
and,  in  March,  "The  Birthmark."  "  Feathertop  "  did 
not  appear  in  the  first  editions,  but  was  added  later, 
after  its  publication  in  two  instalments  in  The  Interna- 
tional Magazine,  1852. 

\  It  may  be  added  that  of  the  seventeen  tales  collected 
in  1852  for  The  Snow  Image  volume,  only  four  were 
subsequent,  in  date  of  writing,  to  the  Mosses.  More 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

than  half  of  them  were  drawn  from  those  old  reservoirs, 
The  Token  and  The  New  England  Magazine. 

This  troublesome  matter  of  times  and  seasons  is  indis- 
pensable to  a  just  understanding  of  the  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse.  When  Mr.  Lathrop^for  example,  writes : 
"The  Mosses  are  the  work  of  a  man  who  has  learned  to 
know  the  world,  and  the  atmosphere  in  which  they  were 
composed  seems  almost  dissonant  with  the  tone  of  some 
of  them;  'The  Birthmark,'  'The  Bosom  Serpent,'  'Rap- 
paccini's  Daughter,'  and  the  terrible  and  lurid  parable 
of  '  Young  Goodman  Brown,'  are  made  up  of  such  hor- 
ror as  Hawthorne  has  seldom  expressed  elsewhere,"  he 
loses  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  last  of  this  group  is  sepa- 
rated by  an  interval  of  eight  years  from  the  other  three, 
being  of  earlier  date  than  the  first  volume  of  Twice-Told 
Tales.  Mr.  James,  too,  uses  this  same  story,  a  midnight 
picture  of  the  haunted  forest,  where  the  young  Puritan's 
heart  is  blasted  by  beholding  his  three  months'  bride  in 
the  communion  of  fiends  and  witches,  as  evidence  that 
Hawthorne's  literary  output  was  independent  of  his 
personal  surroundings.  "  These  duskiest  flowers  of  his 
invention  sprang  straight  from  the  soil  of  his  happiest 
days.  This  surely  indicates  that  there  was  but  little 
direct  connection  between  the  products  of  his  fancy  and 
the  state  of  his  affections.  .  .  .  The  magnificent  little 
romance  of  '  Young  Goodman  Brown,'  for  instance,  evi- 
dently means  nothing  as  regards  Hawthorne's  own  state 
of  mind,  his  conviction  of  human  depravity,  and  his 
consequent  melancholy;  for  the  simple  reason  that,  if 
it  meant  anything,  it  would  mean  too  much."  The 
illustration  fails  in  that  Hawthorne,  when  he  wrote 
"Young  Goodman  Brown,"  was  no  joyous  bridegroom 
at  the  Old  Manse,  but  a  brooding  hermit  in  the  "owl's 
nest "  at  Salem,  Sophia  Peabody  as  yet  unknown  even 
to  his  eyes. 

It  now  becomes  apparent  why  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse,  although  containing  the  most  richly  wrought  of 
Hawthorne's  parables,  does  not,  as  a  book,  make  so 
individual  an  impression  as  Twice-Told  Tales.  Those 
two  earlier  volumes  are  essentially  homogeneous,  per- 


INTRODUCTION  xin 

vaded  throughout  by  that  "  clear,  brown,  twilight  atmos- 
phere "  of  the  retirement  in  which  they  were  written. 
On  the  other  hand,  The  Snow  Image  collection,  the  last 
of  the  series,  is  a  patch  of  grays  and  purples.  The 
volume  in  hand  derives  a  certain  artistic  unity  from  the 
large  proportion  of  work  actually  done  under  the  condi- 
tions of  life  at  the  Old  Manse,  but  the  coherence  is  not 
complete.  -The  veritable  Mosses  number,  in  addition  to 
the  introductory  account  of  this  "  time-worn  mansion  " 
which  served  Hawthorne  and  his  bride  as  a  fresh  Eden, 
.nineteen  out  of  twenty-five,  but  many  of  these,  though 
blooming  in  Concord,  sprang  from  Salem  seed.  On  the 
testimony  of  the  Note-Books,  we  know  that  "The  Christ- 
mas Banquet,"  "The  Bosom  Serpent,"  "A  Virtuoso's 
Collection,"  even  "The  New  Adam  and  Eve,"  had  been 
shaping  themselves  in  Hawthorne's  mind  since  1836. 
The  germ  of  "The  Birthmark"  is  in  the  brief  note  of 
1837,  "A  person  to  be  in  possession  of  something  as 
perfect  as  mortal  man  has  a  right  to  demand ;  he  tries 
to  make  it  better,  and  ruins  it  entirely."  The  jotting 
x  next  after  this,  "  A  person  to  spend  all  his  life  and 
splendid  talents  in  trying  to  achieve  something  natur- 
ally impossible,  —  as  to  make  a  conquest  over  Nature," 
hints,  though  more  remotely,  at  "  The  Artist  of  the 
Beautiful."  Various  suggestions  of  subjects  drawn  from^ 
poison  and  insanity  precede  ".Rappaccini's  DaughtgrJ' 
and  "  P.'s  Correspondence."  The  development  from  \ 
Twice-  Told  Tales  to  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  is  f ar  ]  \ 
less  in  choice  of  theme  than  in  fulness  and  force  of 
treatment.  Shut  into  his  "delightful  little  nook  of  a 
study,"  Hawthorne  had  but  to  flutter  the  leaves  of  his 
old  note-books  to  find  scores  upon  scores  of  significant 
fantasies  awaiting,  his  creative  touch.  "  To  make  a  story 
out  of  a  scarecrow,  giving  it  odd  attributes,"  whispers 
the  rustling  leaf,  or  "  A  bonfire  to  be  made  of  the  gal- 
lows and  of  all  symbols  of  evil."  The  romancer  puts 
hand  to  pen,  and  behold  !  "  Feathertop  "  and  "  Earth's 
Holocaust."  Indeed,  why  should  Hawthorne  have 
sought  new  visions,  with  that  shadowy  train  so  long 
pressing  for  recognition?  Having  desired  for  nine 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

years  to  write  "an  article  on  fire,"  he  takes  his  oppor- 
tunity at  the  Old  Manse  and  produces  "  Fire  Worship." 
.  Hawthorne's  "tales"  fall  into  three  classes.  ^The 
symbolic  romances,  brief  in  compass  as  they  are,  probe 
the  spiritual  secrets  of  humanity, — the  slavery  of  sin, 
the  ghastliness  of  hypocrisy,  the  mystery  of  conscious- 
ness, the  thirst  for  immortal  youth,  the  quest  for  the 
ideal,  death's  mockery,  life's  agony,  and  the  eternal 
hope.  J£h£_essay_s^  polished  to  a  jewel-lustre,  blend  the 
minutest  observation  with  tender,  humorous,  poetic  medi- 
tation. The  stories ^of  thg_olden  time  reproduce,  and 
yet  transform,  our  Puritan  New  England,  misting  over 
the  grimness  of  that  "  rockbound  coast "  with  a  strange 
autumnal  beauty.  In  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  little 
of  the  historical  element  appears.  The  essays  are  few, 
but  one  of  these,  "  Buds  and  Bird  Voices,'x  is  unsur- 
passed in  radiant  charm.  It  is  the  "  allegories  of  the 
heart"  that  are  most  fully  developed  here.  Leisure 
and  happiness,  with  the  measure  of  success  attained, 
nerved  the  artist  with  new  energy  and  daring.  In  pro- 
portion as  his  own  hold  on  life  had  grown  more  definite 
and  strong,  the  dreams  bred  of  his  early  solitude  took 
on  color,  movement,  body.  Still  speaking  in  parables, 
Hawthorne  is  nevertheless  on  his  way  toward  The  Scar- 
let Letter  and  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.  Shadow 
is  becoming  substance. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


MOSSES   FROM  AN   OLD 

MANSE 

THE  OLD  MANSE 
The  Author  makes  the  Reader  acquainted  with  his  Abode. 

BETWEEN  two  tall  gate-posts  of  rough-hewn  stone 
(the  gate  itself  having  fallen  from  its  hinges,  at 
some  unknown  epoch),  we  beheld  the  gray  front  of  the 
old  parsonage,  terminating  the  vista  of  an  avenue  of  black 
ash-trees.  It  was  now  a  twelvemonth  since  the  funeral 
procession  of  the  venerable  clergyman,  its  last  inhabit- 
ant, had  turned  from  that  gate-way  towards  the  village 
burying-ground.  The  wheel-track,  leading  to  the  door, 
as  well  as  the  whole  breadth  of  the  avenue,  was  almost 
overgrown  with  grass,  affording  dainty  mouthfuls  to  two 
or  three  vagrant  cows,  and  an  old  white  horse,  who  had 
his  own  living  to  pick  up  along  the  roadside.  The  glim- 
mering shadows,  that  lay  half  asleep  between  the  door 
of  the  house  and  the  public  highway,  were  a  kind  of 
spiritual  medium,  seen  through  which,  the  edifice  had 
not  quite  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  the  material  world. 
Certainly,  it  had  little  in  common  with  those  ordinary 
abodes,  which  stand  so  imminent  upon  the  road  that 
every  passer-by  can  thrust  his  head,  as  it  were,  into  the 
domestic  circle.  From  these  quiet  windows,  the  figures 
of  passing  travellers  looked  too  remote  and  dim  to  dis- 
turb the  sense  of  privacy.  In  its  near  retirement,  and 
accessible  seclusion,  it  was  the  very  spot  for  the  resi- 
dence of  a  clergyman  ;  a  man  not  estranged  from  human 
life,  yet  enveloped,  in  the  midst  of  it,  with  a  veil  woven 
of  intermingled  gloom  and  brightness.  It  was  worthy 
to  have  been  one  of  the  time-honored  parsonages  of 


2       MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD   MANSE 

England,  in  which,  through  many  generations,  a  suc- 
cession of  holy  occupants  pass  from  youth  to  age,  and 
bequeath  each  an  inheritance  of  sanctity  to  pervade  the 
house  and  hover  over  it,  as  with  an  atmosphere. 

Nor,  in  truth,  had  the  Old  Manse  ever  been  profaned 
by  a  lay  occupant,  until  that  memorable  summer  after- 
noon when  I  entered  it  as  my  home.  A  priest  had  built 
it;  a  priest  had  succeeded  to  it;  other  priestly  men, 
from  time  to  time,  had  dwelt  in  it;  and  children,  born 
in  its  chambers,  had  grown  up  to  assume  the  priestly 
character.  It  was  awful  to  reflect  how  many  sermons 
must  have  been  written  there.  The  latest  inhabitant 
alone  —  he,  by  whose  translation  to  Paradise  the  dwell- 
ing was  left  vacant  —  had  penned  nearly  three  thousand 
discourses,  besides  the  better,  if  not  the  greater  number, 
that  gushed  living  from  his  lips.  How  often,  no  doubt, 
had  he  paced  to  and  fro  along  the  avenue,  attuning  his 
meditations  to  the  sighs  and  gentle  murmurs,  and  deep 
and  solemn  peals,  of  the  wind  among  the  lofty  tops  of 
the  trees!  In  that  variety  of  natural  utterances,  he 
could  find  something  accordant  with  every  passage  of 
his  sermon,  were  it  of  tenderness  or  reverential  fear. 
The  boughs  over  my  head  seemed  shadowy  with  solemn 
thoughts,  as  well  as  with  rustling  leaves.  I  took  shame 
to  myself  for  having  been  so  long  a  writer  of  idle  stories, 
and  ventured  to  hope  that  wisdom  would  descend  upon 
me  with  the  falling  leaves  of  the  avenue ;  and  that  I 
should  light  upon  an  intellectual  treasure  in  the  Old 
Manse,  well  worth  those  hoards  of  long-hidden  gold, 
which  people  seek  for  in  moss-grown  houses.  Profound 
treatises  of  morality  —  a  layman's  unprofessional,  and 
therefore  unprejudiced  views  of  religion;  —  histories 
(such  as  Bancroft  might  have  written,  had  he  taken  up 
his  abode  here,  as  he  once  purposed),  bright  with  picture, 
gleaming  over  a  depth  of  philosophic  thought ;  —  these 
were  the  works  that  might  fitly  have  flowed  from  such 
a  retirement.  In  the  humblest  event,  I  resolved  at  least 
to  achieve  a  novel,  that  should  evolve  some  deep  lesson, 
and  should  possess  physical  substance  enough  to  stand 


THE   OLD    MANSE  3 

In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and  as  if  to  leave  me  no 
pretext  for  not  fulfilling  it,  there  was,  in  the  rear  of  the 
house,  the  most  delightful  little  nook  of  a  study  that 
ever  offered  its  snug  seclusion  to  a  scholar.  It  was 
here  that  Emerson  wrote  "  Nature  "  ;  for  he  was  then  an 
inhabitant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch  the  Assyrian 
dawn  and  the  Paphian  sunset  and  moonrise  from  the 
summit  of  our  eastern  hill.  When  I  first  saw  the  room, 
its  walls  were  blackened  with  the  smoke  of  unnumbered 
years,  and  made  still  blacker  by  the  grim  prints  of  Puri- 
tan ministers  that  hung  around.  These  worthies  looked 
strangely  like  bad  angels,  or,  at  least,  like  men  who  had 
wrestled  so  continually  and  so  sternly  with  the  devil, 
that  somewhat  of  his  sooty  fierceness  had  been  imparted 
to  their  own  visages.  They  had  all  vanished  now ;  a 
cheerful  coat  of  paint,  and  golden-tinted  paper  hangings, 
lighted  up  the  small  apartment ;  while  the  shadow  of  a 
willow-tree,  that  swept  against  the  overhanging  eaves, 
attempered  the  cheery  western  sunshine.  In  place  of 
the  grim  prints,  there  was  the  sweet  and  lovely  head  of 
one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas,  and  two  pleasant  little  pic- 
tures of  the  Lake  of  Como.  The  only  other  decora- 
tions were  a  purple  vase  of  flowers,  always  fresh,  and 
a  bronze  one  containing  graceful  ferns.  My  books  (few 
and  by  no  means  choice ;  for  they  were  chiefly  such 
waifs  as  chance  had  thrown  in  my  way)  stood  in  order 
about  the  room,  seldom  to  be  disturbed. 

The  study  had  three  windows,  set  with  little  old- 
fashioned  panes  of  glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it. 
The  two  on  the  western  side  looked,  or  rather  peeped, 
between  the  willow  branches,  down  into  the  orchard, 
with  glimpses  of  the  river  through  the  trees.  The 
third,  facing  northward,  commanded  a  broader  view  of 
the  river,  at  a  spot  where  its  hitherto  obscure  waters 
gleam  forth  into  the  light  of  history.  It  was  at  this 
window  that  the  clergyman,  who  then  dwelt  in  the 
Manse,  stood  watching  the  outbreak  of  a  long  and 
deadly  struggle  between  two  nations  ;  he  saw  the  irregu- 
lar array  of  his  parishioners  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
river,  and  the  glittering  line  of  the  British,  on  the  hither 


4       MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

bank ;  he  awaited,  in  an  agony  of  suspense,  the  rattle 
of  the  musketry.  It  came  —  and  there  needed  but  a 
gentle  wind  to  sweep  the  battle  smoke  around  this  quiet 
house. 

Perhaps  the  reader  —  whom  I  cannot  help  consider- 
ing as  my  guest  in  the  Old  Manse,  and  entitled  to  all 
courtesy,  in  the  way  of  sight-showing  —  perhaps  he  will 
choose  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  the  memorable  spot. 
We  stand  now  on  the  river's  brink.  It  may  well  be 
called  the  Concord  —  the  river  of  peace  and  quietness  — 
for  it  is  certainly  the  most  unexcitable  and  sluggish 
stream  that  evei  loitered,  imperceptibly,  towards  its 
eternity,  the  sea.  Positively,  I  had  lived  three  weeks 
beside  it,  before  it  grew  quite  clear  to  my  perception 
which  way  the  current  flowed.  It  never  has  a  vivacious 
aspect,  except  when  a  northwestern  breeze  is  vexing  its 
surface,  on  a  sunshiny  day.  From  the  incurable  indo- 
lence of  its  nature,  the  stream  is  happily  incapable  of 
becoming  the  slave  of  human  ingenuity,  as  is  the  fate 
of  so  many  a  wild,  free  mountain  torrent.  While  all 
things  else  are  compelled  to  subserve  some  useful  pur- 
pose, it  idles  its  sluggish  life  away,  in  lazy  liberty,  with- 
out turning  a  solitary  spindle,  or  affording  even  water 
power  enough  to  grind  the  corn  that  grows  upon  its 
banks.  The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows  it  nowhere 
a  bright  pebbly  shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of 
glistening  sand,  in  any  part  of  its  course.  It  slumbers 
between  broad  prairies,  kissing  the  long  meadow  grass, 
and  bathes  the  overhanging  boughs  of  elder  bushes  and 
willows,  or  the  roots  of  elms  and  ash-trees,  and  clumps 
of  maples.  Flags  and  rushes  grow  along  its  plashy 
shore,  the  yellow  water-lily  spreads  its  broad  flat  leaves 
on  the  margin,  and  the  fragrant  white  pond-lily  abounds, 
generally  selecting  a  position  just  so  far  from  the  river's 
brink  that  it  cannot  be  grasped,  save  at  the  hazard  of 
plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its 
loveliness  and  perfume,  springing,  as  it  does,  from  the 
black  mud  over  which  the  river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk 
the  slimy  eel,  and  speckled  frog,  and  the  mud-turtle, 


THE   OLD    MANSE  5 

whom  continual  washing  cannot  cleanse.  It  is  the 
very  same  black  mud  out  of  which  the  yellow  lily  sucks 
its  obscene  life  and  noisome  odor.  Thus  we  see,  too, 
in  the  world,  that  some  persons  assimilate  only  what  is 
ugly  and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstances  which 
supply  good  and  beautified  results  —  the  fragrance  of 
celestial  flowers  —  to  the  daily  life  of  others. 

The  reader  must  not,  from  any  testimony  of  mine, 
contract  a  dislike  towards  our  slumberous  stream.  In 
the  light  of  a  calm  and  golden  sunset,  it  becomes  lovely 
beyond  expression;  the  more  lovely  for  the  quietude 
that  so  well  accords  with  the  hour,  when  even  the  wind, 
after  blustering  all  day  long,  usually  hushes  itself  to 
rest.  Each  tree  and  rock,  and  every  blade  of  grass,  is 
distinctly  imaged,  and,  however  unsightly  in  reality, 
assumes  ideal  beauty  in  the  reflection.  The  minutest 
things  of  earth,  and  the  broad  aspect  of  the  firmament, 
are  pictured  equally  without  effort,  and  with  the  same 
felicity  of  success.  All  the  sky  glows  downward  at  our 
feet ;  the  rich  clouds  float  through  the  unruffled  bosom 
of  the  stream,  like  heavenly  thoughts  through  a  peace- 
ful heart.  We  will  not,  then,  malign  our  river  as  gross 
and  impure,  while  it  can  glorify  itself  with  so  adequate 
a  picture  of  the  heaven  that  broods  above  it ;  or,  if  we 
remember  its  tawny  hue  and  the  muddiness  of  its  bed, 
let  it  be  a  symbol  that  the  earthliest  human  soul  has  an 
infinite  spiritual  capacity,  and  may  contain  the  better 
world  within  its  depths.  But,  indeed,  the  same  lesson 
might  be  drawn  out  of  any  mud-puddle  in  the  streets 
of  a  city  —  and,  being  taught  us  everywhere,  it  must  be 
true. 

Come ;  we  have  pursued  a  somewhat  devious  track, 
in  our  walk  to  the  battle-ground.  Here  we  are,  at  the 
point  where  the  river  was  crossed  by  the  old  bridge, 
the  possession  of  which  was  the  immediate  object  of  the 
contest.  On  the  hither  side  grow  two  or  three  elms, 
throwing  a  wide  circumference  of  shade,  but  which 
must  have  been  planted  at  some  period  within  the  three- 
score years  and  ten  that  have  passed  since  the  battle- 
day.  On  the  farther  shore,  overhung  by  a  clump  of 


6       MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

elder-bushes,  we  discern  the  stone  abutment  of  the 
bridge.  Looking  down  into  the  river,  I  once  discov- 
ered some  heavy  fragment  of  the  timbers,  all  green 
with  half  a  century's  growth  of  water-moss ;  for,  during 
that  length  of  time,  the  tramp  of  horses  and  human 
footsteps  have  ceased,  along  this  ancient  highway.  The 
stream  was  here  about  the  breadth  of  twenty  strokes  of 
a  swimmer's  arm ;  a  space  not  too  wide,  when  the  bul- 
lets were  whistling  across.  Old  people,  who  dwell  here- 
abouts, will  point  out  the  very  spots,  on  the  western 
bank,  where  our  countrymen  fell  down  and  died ;  and, 
on  this  side  of  the  river,  an  obelisk  of  granite  has  grown 
up  from  the  soil  that  was  fertilized  with  British  blood. 
The  monument,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  in  height,  is 
such  as  it  befitted  the  inhabitants  of  a  village  to  erect, 
in  illustration  of  a  matter  of  local  interest,  rather  than 
what  was  suitable  to  commemorate  an  epoch  of  national 
history.  Still,  by  the  fathers  of  the  village  this  famous 
deed  was  done ;  and  their  descendants  might  rightfully 
claim  the  privilege  of  building  a  memorial. 

An  humbler  token  of  the  fight,  yet  a  more  interesting 
one  than  the  granite  obelisk,  may  be  seen  close  under 
the  stone  wall,  which  separates  the  battle-ground  from 
the  precincts  of  the  parsonage.  It  is  the  grave  — 
marked  by  a  small,  moss-grown  fragment  of  stone  at  the 
head,  and  another  at  the  foot  —  the  grave  of  two  British 
soldiers,  who  were  slain  in  the  skirmish,  and  have  ever 
since  slept  peacefully  where  Zechariah  Brown  and 
Thomas  Davis  buried  them.  Soon  was  their  warfare 
ended  ;  —  a  weary  night-march  from  Boston  —  a  rattling 
volley  of  musketry  across  the  river;  —  and  then  these 
many  years  of  rest!  In  the  long  procession  of  slain 
invaders,  who  passed  into  eternity  from  the  battle-fields 
of  the  Revolution,  these  two  nameless  soldiers  led  the 
way. 

Lowell,  the  poet,  as  we  were  once  standing  over  this 
grave,  told  me  a  tradition  in  reference  to  one  of  the 
inhabitants  below.  The  story  has  something  deeply 
impressive,  though  its  circumstances  cannot  altogether 
be  reconciled  with  probability.  A  youth,  in  the  service 


THE   OLD    MANSE  7 

of  the  clergyman,  happened  to  be  chopping  wood,  that 
April  morning,  at  the  back  door  of  the  Manse ;  and 
when  the  noise  of  battle  rang  from  side  to  side  of  the 
bridge,  he  hastened  across  the  intervening  field,  to  see 
what  might  be  going  forward.  It  is  rather  strange,  by 
the  way,  that  this  lad  should  have  been  so  diligently  at 
work,  when  the  whole  population  of  town  and  country 
were  startled  out  of  their  customary  business  by  the 
advance  of  the  British  troops.  Be  that  as  it  might,  the 
tradition  says  that  the  lad  now  left  his  task,  and  hurried 
to  the  battle-field,  with  the  axe  still  in  his  hand.  The 
British  had  by  this  time  retreated  —  the  Americans 
were  in  pursuit  —  and  the  late  scene  of  strife  was  thus 
deserted  by  both  parties.  Two  soldiers  lay  on  the 
ground ;  one  was  a  corpse ;  but,  as  the  young  New 
Englander  drew  nigh,  the  other  Briton  raised  himself 
painfully  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  and  gave  a  ghastly 
stare  into  his  face.  The  boy  —  it  must  have  been  a 
nervous  impulse,  without  purpose,  without  thought,  and 
betokening  a  sensitive  and  impressible  nature,  rather  than 
a  hardened  one  —  the  boy  uplifted  his  axe,  and  dealt 
the  wounded  soldier  a  fierce  and  fatal  blow  upon  the 
head. 

I  could  wish  that  the  grave  might  be  opened ;  for  I 
would  fain  know  whether  either  the  skeleton  soldiers 
has  the  mark  of  an  axe  in  his  skull.     The  story  comes 
home  to  me  like  truth.     Oftentimes,  as  an  intellectual 
and  moral  exercise,  I  have  sought  to  follow  that  poor 
youth  through  his  subsequent  career,  and  observe  how 
his  soul  was  tortured  by  the  blood-stain,  contracted  as  it 
had  been,  before  the  long  custom  of  war  had  robbed        I 
human   life   of   its   sanctity,  and  while  it   still  seemed        / 
murderous  to  slay  a   brother   man.     This   one  circum-       j 
stance  has  borne  more  fruit  for  me  than  all  that  history 
tells  us  of  the  fight. 

Many  strangers  come  in  the  summer-time,  to  view  the 
battle-ground.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  never  found 
my  imagination  much  excited  by  this,  or  any  other  scene 
of  historic  celebrity  ;  nor  would  the  placid  margin  of  the 
river  have  lost  any  of  its  charm  for  me,  had  men  never 


8       MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

fought  and  died  there.  There  is  a  wilder  interest  in  the 
tract  of  land — perhaps  a  hundred  yards  in  breadth  — 
which  extends  between  the  battle-field  and  the  northern 
face  of  our  Old  Manse,  with  its  contiguous  avenue  and 
orchard.  Here,  in  some  unknown  age,  before  the  white 
man  came,  stood  an  Indian  village  convenient  to  the 
river,  whence  its  inhabitants  must  have  drawn  so  large 
a  part  of  their  subsistence.  The  site  is  identified  by  the 
spear  and  arrow  heads,  the  chisels,  and  other  imple- 
ments of  war,  labor,  and  the  chase,  which  the  plough 
turns  up  from  the  soil.  You  see  a  splinter  of  stone, 
half  hidden  beneath  a  sod ;  it  looks  like  nothing  worthy 
of  note  ;  but,  if  you  have  faith  enough  to  pick  it  up  — 
behold  a  relic !  Thoreau,  who  has  a  strange  faculty  of 
finding  what  the  Indians  have  left  behind  them,  first  set 
me  on  the  search;  and  I  afterwards  enriched  myself 
with  some  very  perfect  specimens,  so  rudely  wrought 
that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  chance  had  fashioned  them. 
Their  great  charm  consists  in  this  rudeness,  and  in  the 
individuality  of  each  article,  so  different  from  the  pro- 
ductions of  civilized  machinery,  which  shapes  every- 
thing on  one  pattern.  There  is  exquisite  delight,  too,  in 
picking  up,  for  one's  self,  an  arrow-head  that  was  dropt 
centuries  ago,  and  has  never  been  handled  since,  and 
which  we  thus  receive  directly  from  the  hand  of  the  red 
hunter,  who  purposed  to  shoot  it  at  his  game,  or  at  an 
enemy.  Such  an  incident  builds  up  again  the  Indian 
village,  and  its  encircling  forest,  and  recalls  to  life  the 
painted  chiefs  and  warriors,  the  squaws  at  their  house- 
hold toil,  and  the  children  sporting  among  the  wigwams  ; 
while  the  little  wind-rocked  pappoose  swings  from  the 
branch  of  a  tree.  It  can  hardly  be  told  whether  it  is  a 
joy  or  a  pain,  after  such  a  momentary  vision,  to  gaze 
around  in  the  broad  daylight  of  reality,  and  see  stone- 
fences,  white  houses,  potato-fields,  and  men  doggedly 
hoeing,  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  homespun  pantaloons. 
But  this  is  nonsense.  The  Old  Manse  is  better  than  a 
thousand  wigwams. 

The  Old  Manse !  —  we  had  almost  forgotten  it,  but 
will  return  thither  through  the  orchard.     This  was  set 


THE   OLD    MANSE  9 

out  by  the  last  clergyman,  in  the  decline  of  his  life, 
when  the  neighbors  laughed  at  the  hoary-headed  man 
for  planting  trees  from  which  he  could  have  no  pros- 
pect of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that  been  the  case, 
there  was  only  so  much  the  better  motive  for  planting^ 
them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  hisx. 
successors :  an  end  so  seldom  achieved  by  more  ambi- 
tious efforts.  But  the  old  minister,  before  reaching  his 
patriarchal  age  of  ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this  orchard 
during  many  years,  and  added  silver  and  gold  to  his 
annual  stipend,  by  disposing  of  the  superfluity.  It  is 
pleasant  to  think  of  him,  walking  among  the  trees 
in  the  quiet  afternoons  of  early  autumn,  and  picking 
up  here  and  their  a  windfall ;  while  he  observes  how 
heavily  the  branches  are  weighed  down,  and  computes 
the  number  of  empty  flour-barrels  that  will  be  filled  by 
their  burthen.  He  loved  each  tree  doubtless,  as  if  it 
had  been  his  own  child.  An  orchard  has  a  relation  to 
mankind,  and  readily  connects  itself  with  matters  of  the 
heart.  The  trees  possess  a  domestic  character ;  they 
have  lost  the  wild  nature  of  their  forest-kindred,  and 
have  grown  humanized  by  receiving  the  care  of  man,  as  i/y* 
well  as  by  contributing  to  his  wants.  There  is  so  much  ]  fy( 
individuality  of  character,  too,  among  apple-trees,  that  it  r 
gives  them  an  additional  claim  to  be  the  objects  of 
human  interest.  One  is  harsh  and  crabbed  in  its  mani- 
festations; another  gives  us  fruit  as  mild  as  charity. 
One  is  churlish  and  illiberal,  evidently  grudging  the  few 
apples  that  it  bears  :  another  exhausts  itself  in  free- 
hearted benevolence.  The  variety  of  grotesque  shapes 
into  which  apple-trees  contort  themselves,  has  its  effect 
on  those  who  get  acquainted  with  them :  they  stretch 
out  their  crooked  branches,  and  take  such  hold  of  the 
imagination,  that  we  remember  them  as  humorists  and 
odd  fellows.  And  what  is  more  melancholy  than  the 
old  apple-trees,  that  linger  about  the  spot  where  once 
stood  a  homestead,  but  where  there  is  now  only  a  ruined 
chimney,  rising  out  of  a  grassy  and  weed-grown  cellar  ? 
They  offer  their  fruit  to  every  wayfarer  —  apples  that 
are  bitter-sweet  with  the  moral  of  time's  vicissitude. 


io     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such  pleasant  trouble  in 
the  world,  as  that  of  finding  myself,  with  only  the  two 
or  three  mouths  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  feed,  the 
sole  inheritor  of  the  old  clergyman's  wealth  of  fruits. 
Throughout  the  summer,  there  were  cherries  and  cur- 
rants ;  and '  then  came  autumn,  with  his  immense  bur- 
then of  apples,  dropping  them  continually  from  his 
over-laden  shoulders,  as  he  trudged  along.  In  the 
stillest  afternoon,  if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great, 
apple  was  audible,  falling  without  a  breath  of  wind, 
from  the  mere  necessity  of  perfect  ripeness.  And, 
besides,  there  were  pear-trees,  that  flung  down  bushels 
upon  bushels  of  heavy  pears ;  and  peach-trees,  which, 
in  a  good  year,  tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither 
to  be  eaten  nor  kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  perplex- 
ity, to  be  given  away;  The  idea  of  an  infinite  gen- 
erosity and  exhaustless  bounty,  on  the  part  of  our 
Mother  Nature,  was  well  worth  obtaining  through 
such  cares  as  these.  That  feeling  can  be  enjoyed  in 
perfection  only  by  the  natives  of  summer  islands, 
where  the  bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the 
orange  grow  spontaneously,  and  hold  forth  the  ever 
ready  meal;  but,  likewise,  almost  as  well,  by  a  man 
long  habituated  to  city  life,  who  plunges  into  such  a 
solitude  as  that  of  the  Old  Manse,  where  he  plucks 
the  fruit  of  trees  that  he  did  not  plant ;  and  which, 
therefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste,  bear  the  closer  resem- 
blance to  those  that  grew  in  Eden.  It  has  been  an 
apophthegm  these  five  thousand  years,  that  toil  sweet- 
ens the  bread  it  earns.  For  my  part  (speaking  from 
hard  experience,  acquired  while  belaboring  the  rugged 
furrows  of  Brook  Farm),  I  relish  best  the  free  gifts  of 
Providence. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil, 
requisite  to  cultivate  a  moderately  sized  garden,  im- 
parts such  zest  to  kitchen-vegetables  as  is  never  found 
in  those  of  the  market-gardener.  Childless  men,  if 
they  would  know  something  of  the  bliss  of  paternity, 
should  plant  a  seed  —  be  it  squash,  bean,  Indian-corn, 
or  perhaps  a  mere  flower,  or  worthless  weed  —  should 


THE    OLD    MANSE  n 

plant  it  with  their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy 
to  maturity,  altogether  by  their  own  care.  If  there 
be  not  too  many  of  them,  each  individual  plant  be- 
comes an  object  of  separate  interest.  My  garden,  that 
skirted  the  avenue  of  the  Manse,  was  of  precisely 
the  right  extent.  An  hour  or  two  of  morning  labor 
was  all  that  it  required.  But  I  used  to  visit  and  re- 
visit it  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep  con- 
templation over  my  vegetable  progeny,  with  a  love 
that  nobody  could  share  or  conceive  of,  who  had  never 
taken  part  in  the  process  of  creation.  It  was  one 
of  the  most  bewitching  sights  in  the  world  to  observe 
a  hill  of  beans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row  of 
early  peas  just  peeping  forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a 
line  of  delicate  green.  Later  in  the  season,  the  hum- 
ming-birds were  attracted  by  the  blossoms  of  a  peculiar 
variety  of  bean ;  and  they  were  a  joy  to  me,  those 
little  spiritual  visitants,  for  deigning  to  sip  any  food 
out  of  my  nectar-cups.  Multitudes  of  bees  used  to 
bury  themselves  in  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  summer- 
squashes.  This,  too,  was  a  deep  satisfaction ;  although, 
when  they  had  laden  themselves  with  sweets,  they 
flew  away  to  some  unknown  hive,  which  would  give 
back  nothing  in  requital  of  what  my  garden  had  con- 
tributed. But  I  was  glad  thus  to  fling  a  benefaction 
upon  the  passing  breeze,  with  the  certainty  that  some- 
body must  profit  by  it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  little 
more  honey  in  the  world,  to  allay  the  sourness  and 
bitterness  which  mankind  is  always  complaining  of. 
Yes,  indeed ;  my  life  was  the  sweeter  for  that  honey. 

Speaking  of  summer-squashes,  I  must  say  a  word  of 
their  beautiful  and  varied  forms.  They  presented  an 
endless  diversity  of  urns  and  vases,  shallow  or  deep, 
scalloped  or  plain,  moulded  in  patterns  which  a  sculptor 
would  do  well  to  copy,  since  art  has  never  invented 
anything  more  graceful.  A  hundred  squashes  in  the 
garden  were  worthy  —  in  my  eyes,  at  least  —  of  being 
rendered  indestructible  in  marble.  If  ever  Providence 
(but  I  know  it  never  will)  should  assign  me  a  super- 
fluity of  gold,  part  of  it  shall  be  expended  for  a  service 


12     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

of  plate,  or  most  delicate  porcelain,  to  be  wrought  into 
the  shapes  of  summer-squashes,  gathered  from  vines 
which  I  will  plant  with  my  own  hands.  As  dishes 
for  containing  vegetables,  they  would  be  peculiarly 
appropriate. 

But  not  merely  the  squeamish  love  of  the  Beautiful 
was  gratified  by  my  toil  in  the  kitchen-garden.  There 
was  a  hearty  enjoyment,  likewise,  in  observing  the 
growth  of  the  crook-necked  winter-squashes,  from  the 
first  little  bulb,  with  the  withered  blossom  adhering 
to  it,  until  they  lay  strewn  upon  the  soil,  big,  round 
fellows,  hiding  their  heads  beneath  the  leaves,  but 
turning  up  their  great  yellow  rotundities  to  the  noon- 
tide sun.  Gazing  at  them,  I  felt  that,  by  my  agency, 
something  worth  living  for  had  been  done.  A  new 
substance  was  born  into  the  world.  They  were  real 
and  tangible  existences,  which  the  mind  could  seize 
hold  of  and  rejoice  in.  A  cabbage,  too,  —  especially 
the  early  Dutch  cabbage,  which  swells  to  a  monstrous 
circumference,  until  its  ambitious  heart  often  bursts 
asunder,  —  is  a  matter  to  be  proud  of,  when  we  can 
claim  a  share  with  the  earth  and  sky  in  producing  it. 
But,  after  all,  the  hugest  pleasure  is  reserved  until  these 
vegetable  children  of  ours  are  smoking  on  the  table, 
and  we,  like  Saturn,  make  a  meal  of  them. 

What  with  the  river,  the  battle-field,  the  orchard,  and 
the  garden,  the  reader  begins  to  despair  of  finding  his 
way  back  into  the  Old  Manse.  But,  in  agreeable 
weather,  it  is  the  truest  hospitality  to  keep  him  out  of 
doors.  I  never  grew  quite  acquainted  with  my  habi- 
tation till  a  long  spell  of  sulky  rain  had  confined  me 
beneath  its  roof.  There  could  not  be  a  more  sombre 
aspect  of  external  nature  than  as  seen  from  the  windows 
of  my  study.  The  great  willow-tree  had  caught  and  re- 
tained among  its  leaves  a  whole  cataract  of  water  to  be 
shaken  down,  at  intervals,  by  the  frequent  gusts  of  wind. 
All  day  long,  and  for  a  week  together,  the  rain  was  drip- 
drip-dripping  and  splash-splash-splashing  from  the  eaves, 
and  bubbling  and  foaming  into  the  tubs  beneath  the 
spouts.  The  old,  unpainted  shingles  of  the  house  and 


THE   OLD    MANSE  13 

out-buildings  were  black  with  moisture ;  and  the  mosses 
of  ancient  growth  upon  the  walls  looked  green  and 
fresh,  as  if  they  were  the  newest  things  and  afterthought 
of  time.  The  usually  mirrored  surface  of  the  river  was 
blurred  by  an  infinity  of  rain-drops.  The  whole  land- 
scape had  a  completely  water-soaked  appearance,  con- 
veying the  impression  that  the  earth  was  wet  through, 
like  a  sponge ;  while  the  summit  of  a  wooded  hill,  about 
a  mile  distant,  was  enveloped  in  a  dense  mist,  where  the 
demon  of  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  his  abiding-place, 
and  to  be  plotting  still  direr  inclemencies. 

Nature  has  no  kindness — no  hospitality — during  a 
rain.  In  the  fiercest  heat  of  sunny  days,  she  retains  a  fl  ,  i 
secret  mercy,  and  welcomes  the  wayfarer  to  shady  nooks  /  /  f 
of  the  woods,  whither  the  sun  cannot  penetrate.  But  Q\ 
she  provides  no  shelter  against  her  storms.^  It  makes 
us  shiver  to  think  of  those  deep,  umbrageous  recesses 
—  those  overshadowing  banks  —  where  we  found  such 
enjoyment  during  the  sultry  afternoons.  Not  a  twig  of 
foliage  there,  but  would  dash  a  little  shower  into  our 
faces.  Looking  reproachfully  towards  the  impenetrable 
sky  —  if  sky  there  be,  above  that  dismal  uniformity  of 
cloud  —  we  are  apt  to  murmur  against  the  whole  system 
of  the  universe ;  since  it  involves  the  extinction  of  so 
many  summer  days,  in  so  short  a  life,  by  the  hissing  and 
spluttering  rain.  In  such  spells  of  weather  —  and  it  is 
to  be  supposed,  such  weather  came  —  Eve's  bower  in 
Paradise  must  have  been  but  a  cheerless  and  aguish 
kind  of  shelter ;  nowise  comparable  to  the  old  parson- 
age, which  had  resources  of  its  own,  to  beguile  the 
week's  imprisonment.  The  idea  of  sleeping  on  a  couch 
of  wet  roses ! 

Happy  the  man  who,  in  a  rainy  day,  can  betake  him- 
self to  a  huge  garret,  stored,  like  that  of  the  Manse,  with 
lumber  that  each  generation  has  left  behind  it,  from  a 
period  before  the  Revolution.  Our  garret  was  an  arched 
hall,  dimly  illuminated  through  small  and  dusty  windows ; 
it  was  but  a  twilight,  at  the  best ;  and  there  were  nooks, 
or  rather  caverns,  of  deep  obscurity,  the  secrets  of  which 
I  never  learned,  being  too  reverent  of  their  dust  and 


i4     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

cobwebs.  The  beams  and  rafters,  roughly  hewn,  and 
with  strips  of  bark  still  on  them,  and  the  rude  masonry 
of  the  chimneys,  made  the  garret  look  wild  and  uncivil- 
ized; an  aspect  unlike  what  was  seen  elsewhere,  in  the 
quiet  and  decorous  old  house.  But,  on  one  side,  there 
was  a  little  white-washed  apartment  which  bore  the  tradi- 
tionary title  of  the  Saint's  chamber,  because  holy  men, 
in  their  youth,  had  slept,  and  studied,  and  prayed  there. 
With  its  elevated  retirement,  its  one  window,  its  small 
fireplace,  and  its  closet,  convenient  for  an  oratory,  it  was 
the  very  spot  where  a  young  man  might  inspire  himself 
with  solemn  enthusiasm,  and  cherish  saintly  dreams. 
The  occupants,  at  various  epochs,  had  left  brief  records 
and  speculations,  inscribed  upon  the  walls.  There,  too, 
hung  a  tattered  and  shrivelled  roll  of  canvas,  which,  on 
inspection,  proved  to  be  the  forcibly  wrought  picture  of 
a  clergyman,  in  wig,  band,  and  gown,  holding  a  Bible  in 
his  hand.  As  I  turned  his  face  towards  the  light,  he 
eyed  me  with  an  air  of  authority  such  as  men  of  his  pro- 
fession seldom  assume,  in  our  days.  The  original  had 
been  pastor  of  the  parish  more  than  a  century  ago,  a 
friend'of  Whitefield,  and  almost  his  equal  in  fervid  elo- 
quence. I  bowed  before  the  effigy  of  the  dignified 
divine,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  now  met  face  to  face  with  the 
ghost,  by  whom,  as  there  was  reason  to  apprehend,  the 
Manse  was  haunted. 

Houses  of  any  antiquity,  in  New  England,  are  so  in- 
variably possessed  with  spirits,  that  the  matter  seems 
hardly  worth  alluding  to.  Our  ghost  used  to  heave 
deep  sighs  in  a  particular  corner  of  the  parlor;  and 
sometimes  rustled  paper,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  a 
sermon,  in  the  long  upper  entry ;  —  where,  nevertheless, 
he  was  invisible,  in  spite  of  the  bright  moonshine  that 
fell  through  the  eastern  window.  Not  improbably,  he 
wished  me  to  edit  and  publish  a  selection  from  a  chest 
full  of  manuscript  discourses,  that  stood  in  the  garret. 
Once,  while  Hillard  and  other  friends  sat  talking  with 
us  in  the  twilight,  there  came  a  rustling  noise,  as  of  a 
minister's  silk  gown  sweeping  through  the  very  midst  of 
the  company,  so  closely  as  almost  to  brush  against  the 


THE   OLD    MANSE  15 

chairs.  Still,  there  was  nothing  visible.  A  yet  stranger 
business  was  that  of  a  ghostly  servant-maid,  who  used 
to  be  heard  in  the  kitchen,  at  deepest  midnight,  grind- 
ing coffee,  cooking,  ironing  —  performing,  in  short,  all 
kinds  of  domestic  labor  —  although  no  traces  of  any- 
thing accomplished  could  be  detected  the  next  morning. 
Some  neglected  duty  of  her  servitude  —  some  ill-starched 
ministerial  band  —  disturbed  the  poor  damsel  in  her 
grave,  and  kept  her  at  work  without  any  wages. 

But  to  return  from  this  digression.  A  part  of  my 
predecessor's  library  was  stored  in  the  garret ;  no  unfit 
receptacle,  indeed,  for  such  dreary  trash  as  comprised 
the  greater  number  of  volumes.  The  old  books  would 
have  been  worth  nothing  at  an  auction.  In  this  vener- 
able garret,  however,  they  possessed  an  interest  quite 
apart  from  their  literary  value,  as  heirlooms,  many  of 
which  had  been  transmitted  down  through  a  series  of 
consecrated  hands,  from  the  days  of  the  mighty  Puritan 
divines.  Autographs  of  famous  names  were  to  be  seen, 
in  faded  ink,  on  some  of  their  fly-leaves ;  and  there  were 
marginal  observations,  or  interpolated  pages  closely 
covered  with  manuscript,  in  illegible  short-hand,  perhaps 
concealing  matter  of  profound  truth  and  wisdom.  The 
world  will  never  be  the  better  for  it.  A  few  of  the 
books  were  Latin  folios,  written  by  Catholic  authors ; 
others  demolished  papistry  as  with  a  sledge  hammer,  in 
plain  English.  A  dissertation  on  the  Book  of  Job  — 
which  only  Job  himself  could  have  had  patience  to  read 
—  filled  at  least  a  score  of  small,  thickset  quartos,  at 
the  rate  of  two  or  three  volumes  to  a  chapter.  Then 
there  was  a  vast  folio  Body  of  Divinity  ;  too  corpulent  a 
body,  it  might  be  feared,  to  comprehend  the  spiritual 
element  of  religion.  Volumes  of  this  form  dated  back 
two  hundred  years,  or  more,  and  were  generally  bound 
in  black  leather,  exhibiting  precisely  such  an  appearance 
as  we  should  attribute  to  books  of  enchantment.  Others, 
equally  antique,  were  of  a  size  proper  to  be  carried  in 
the  large  waistcoat  pockets  of  old  times;  diminutive, 
but  as  black  as  their  bulkier  brethren,  and  abundantly 
interfused  with  Greek  and  Latin  quotations.  These  little 


16     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

old  volumes  impressed  me  as  if  they  had  been  intended 
for  very  large  ones,  but  had  been  unfortunately  blighted 
at  an  early  stage  of  their  growth. 

The  rain  pattered  upon  the  roof,  and  the  sky  gloomed 
through  the  dusty  garret  windows ;  while  I  burrowed 
/among  these  venerable  books,  in  search  of  any  living 
thought,  which  should  burn  like  a  coal  of  fire,  or  glow 
like  an  inextinguishable  gem,  beneath  the  dead  trumpery 
that  had  long  hidden  it.  But  I  found  no  such  treasure  ; 
all  was  dead  alike ;  and  I  could  not  but  muse  deeply 
and  wonderingly  upon  the  humiliating  fact,  that  the 
works  of  man's  intellect  decay  like  those  of  his  hands. 
Thought  grows_mouldy.  What  was  good  and  nourish- 
ing food  tor  tne~  spirits  of  one  generation,  affords  no 
sustenance  for  the  next.  Books  of  religion,  however, 
cannot  be  considered  a  fair  test  of  the  enduring  and 
vivacious  properties  of  human  thought ;  because  such 
books  so  seldom  really  touch  upon  their  ostensible  sub- 
ject, and  have  therefore  so  little  business  to  be  written 
at  all.  So  long  as  an  unlettered  soul  can  attain  to  sav- 
ing grace,  there  would  seem  to  be  no  deadly  error  in 
holding  theological  libraries  to  be  accumulations  of,  for 
the  most  part,  stupendous  impertinence. 

Many  of  the  books  had  accrued  in  the  latter  years  of 
the  last  clergyman's  lifetime.  These  threatened  to  be 
of  even  less  interest  than  the  elder  works,  a  century 
hence,  to  any  curious  inquirer  who  should  then  rummage 
them,  as  I  was  doing  now.  Volumes  of  the  Liberal 
Preacher  and  Christian  Examiner,  occasional  sermons, 
controversial  pamphlets,  tracts,  and  other  productions 
of  a  like  fugitive  nature,  took  the  place  of  the  thick 
and  heavy  volumes  of  past  time.  In  a  physical  point 
of  view,  there  was  much  the  same  difference  as  between 
a  feather  and  a  lump  of  lead  ;  but,  intellectually  regarded, 
the  specific  gravity  of  old  and  new  was  about  upon  a 
par.  Both,  also,  were  alike  frigid.  The  elder  books, 
nevertheless,  seemed  to  have  been  earnestly  written,  and 
might  be  conceived  to  have  possessed  warmth  at  some 
former  period ;  although,  with  the  lapse  of  time,  the 
heated  masses  had  cooled  down  even  to  the  freezing 


THE   OLD    MANSE  17 

point.  The  frigidity  of  the  modern  productions,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  characteristic  and  inherent,  and  evi- 
dently had  little  to  do  with  the  writers'  qualities  of  mind 
and  heart.  In  fine,  of  this  whole  dusty  heap  of  litera- 
ture, I  tossed  aside  all  the  sacred  part,  and  felt  myself 
none  the  less  a  Christian  for  eschewing  it.  There  ap- 
peared no  hope  of  either  mounting  to  the  better  world 
on  a  Gothic  staircase  of  ancient  folios,  or  of  flying  thither 
on  the  wings  of  a  modern  tract. 

i  Nothing,  strange  to  say,  retained  any  sap,  except  what 
had  been  written  for  the  passing  day  and  year,  without 
the  remotest  pretension  or  idea  of  permanence.  There 
were  a  few  old  newspapers,  and  still  older  almanacs, 
which  reproduced,  to  my  mental  eye,  the  epochs  when 
they  had  issued  from  the  press,  with  a  distinctness  that 
was  altogether  unaccountable.  It  was  as  if  I  had  found 
bits  of  magic  looking-glass  among  the  books,  with  the 
images  of  a  vanished  century  in  them.  I  turned  my 
eyes  towards  the  tattered  picture,  above-mentioned,  and 
asked  of  the  austere  divine,  wherefore  it  was  that  he 
and  his  brethren,  after  the  most  painful  rummaging  and 
groping  into  their  minds,  had  been  able  to  produce 
nothing  half  so  real  as  these  newspaper  scribblers  and 
almanac-makers  had  thrown  off,  in  the  effervescence  of 
a  moment.  The  portrait  responded  not ;  so  I  sought  an 
answer  for  myself.  It  is  the  age  itself  that  writes  news- 
papers and  almanacs,  which  therefore  have  a  distinct 
purpose-arid  meaning  at  the  time,  and  a  kind  of  intelli- 
gible .ftrutly  for  all  times ;  whereas,  most  other  works  — 
being  written  by  men  who,  in  the  very  act,  set  them- 
selves a/part  from  their  age  —  are  likely  to  possess  little 
ificanc^>when  new,  and  none  at  all  when  old.  Genius, 
indeedTmelts  many  ages  into  one,  and  thus  effects  some- 
thing  permanent,  yet  still  with  a  similarity  of  office  to 
that  of  the  more  ephemeral  writer.  A  work  of  genius 
is  but  the  newspaper  of  a  century,  or  perchance  of  a 
hundred  centuries. 

Lightly  as  I  have  spoken  of  these  old  books,  there 
yet  lingers  with  me  a  superstitious  reverence  for  litera- 
ture of  all  kinds.  A  bound  volume  has  a  charm  in  my 


i8     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

eyes,  similar  to  what  scraps  of  manuscript  possess  for 
the  good  Mussulman;  he  imagines  that  those  wind- 
wafted  records  are  perhaps  hallowed  by  some  sacred 
verse ;  and  I,  that  every  new  book,  or  antique  one,  may 
contain  the  "Open  Sesame"  —  the  spell  to  disclose 
treasures,  hidden  in  some  unsuspected  cave  of  Truth. 
Thus  it  was  not  without  sadness  that  I  turned  away 
from  the  library  of  the  Old  Manse. 

Blessed  was  the  sunshine  when  it  came  again,  at  the 
close  of  another  stormy  day,  beaming  from  the  edge  of 
the  western  horizon ;  while  the  massive  firmament  of 
clouds  threw  down  all  the  gloom  it  could,  but  served 
only  to  kindle  the  golden  light  into  a  more  brilliant 
glow,  by  the  strongly  contrasted  shadows.  Heaven 
smiled  at  the  earth,  long  unseen  from  beneath  its  heavy 
eyelid.  To-morrow  for  the  hilltops  and  the  wood- 
paths  ! 

Or  it  might  be  that  Ellery  Channing  came  up  the 
avenue,  to  join  me  in  a  fishing  excursion  on  the  river. 
Strange  and  happy  times  were  those,  when  we  cast 
aside  all  irksome  forms  and  strait-laced  habitudes,  and 
delivered  ourselves  up  to  the  free  air,  to  live  like  the 
Indians  or  any  less  conventional  race,  during  one  bright 
semicircle  of  the  sun.  Rowing  our  boat  against  the 
current,  between  wide  meadows,  we  turned  aside  into 
the  Assabeth.  A  more  lonely  stream  than  this,  for  a 
mile  above  its  junction  with  the  Concord,  has  never 
flowed  on  earth  —  nowhere,  indeed,  except  to  lave  the 
interior  regions  of  a  poet's  imagination.  It  is  sheltered 
from  the  breeze  by  woods  and  a  hillside ;  so  that  else- 
where there  might  be  a  hurricane,  and  here  scarcely  a 
ripple  across  the  shaded  water.  The  current  lingers 
along  so  gently,  that  the  mere  force  of  the  boatman's 
will  seems  sufficient  to  propel  his  craft  against  it.  It 
comes  flowing  softly  through  the  midmost  privacy  and 
deepest  heart  of  a  wood,  which  whispers  it  to  be  quiet, 
while  the  stream  whispers  back  again  from  its  sedgy 
borders,  as  if  river  and  wood  were  hushing  one  another 
to  sleep.  Yes;  the  river  sleeps  along  its  course,  and 
dreams  of  the  sky,  and  of  the  clustering  foliage ;  amid 


THE   OLD    MANSE  19 

which  fall  showers  of  broken  sunlight,  imparting  specks 
of  vivid  cheerfulness,  in  contrast  with  the  quiet  depth 

'of  the  prevailing  tint.  Of  all  this  scene,  the  slumbering 
river  had  a  dream-picture  in  its  bosom.  Which,  after 
all,  was  the  most  real  —  the  picture,  or  the  original  ?  — 
the  objects  palpable  to  our  grosser  senses,  or  their 
apotheosis  in  the  stream  beneath  ?  Surely  the  disem- 
bodied images  stand  in  closer  relation  to  the  soul.  But 
both  the  original  and  the  reflection  had  here  an  ideal 
charm ;  and  had  it  been  a  thought  more  wild,  I  could 
have  fancied  that  this  river  had  strayed  forth  out  of  the 
rich  scenery  of  my  companion's  inner  world ;  —  only  the 
vegetation  along  its  banks  should  then  have  had  an 
oriental  character. 

Gentle  and  unobtrusive  as  the  river  is,  yet  the  tran- 
quil woods  seem  hardly  satisfied  to  allow  it  passage. 
The  trees  are  rooted  on  the  very  verge  of  the  water, 
and  dip  their  pendent  branches  into  it.  At  one  spot, 
there  is  a  lofty  bank,  on  the  slope  of  which  grow  some 
hemlocks,  declining  across  the  stream,  with  outstretched 
arms,  as  if  resolute  to  take  the  plunge.  In  other 
places,  the  banks  are  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
water ;  so  that  the  quiet  congregation  of  trees  set  ' 
their  feet  in  the  flood,  and  are  fringed  with  foliage 
down  to  the  surface.  Cardinal  flowers  kindle  their 
spiral  flames,  and  illuminate  the  dark  nooks  among  the 
shrubbery.  The  pond-lily  grows  abundantly  along  the 
margin;  that  delicious  flower  which,  as  Thoreau  tells 
me,  opens  its  virgin  bosom  to  the  first  sunlight,  and 
perfects  its  being  through  the  magic  of  that  genial 
kiss.  He  has  beheld  beds  of  them  unfolding  in  due 
succession,  as  the  sunrise  stole  gradually  from  flower 

f  to  flower ;  a  sight  not  to  be  hoped  for,  unless  when  a 
poet  adjusts  his  inward  eye  to  a  proper  focus  with  the 

\outward  organ.  Grape-vines,  here  and  there,  twine 
themselves  around  shrub  and  tree,  and  hang  their 
clusters  over  the  water,  within  reach  of  the  boatman's 
hand.  Oftentimes,  they  unite  two  trees  of  alien  race 
in  an  inextricable  twine,  marrying  the  hemlock  and 
the  maple  against  their  will,  and  enriching  them  with 


20     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

a  purple  offspring,  of  which  neither  is  the  parent. 
One  of  these  ambitious  parasites  has  climbed  into  the 
upper  branches  of  a  tall  white  pine,  and  is  still  ascend- 
ing from  bough  to  bough,  unsatisfied,  till  it  shall  crown 
the  tree's  airy  summit  with  a  wreath  of  its  broad  foliage 
and  a  cluster  of  its  grapes. 

The  winding  course  of  the  stream  continually  shut 
out  the  scene  behind  us,  and  revealed  as  calm  and 
lovely  a  one  before.  We  glided  from  depth  to  depth, 
and  breathed  new  seclusion  at  every  turn.  The  shy 
kingfisher  flew  from  the  withered  branch  close  at 
hand,  to  another  at  a  distance,  uttering  a  shrill  cry 
of  anger  or  alarm.  Ducks  —  that  had  been  floating 
there  since  the  preceding  eve  —  were  startled  at  our 
approach,  and  skimmed  along  the  glassy  river,  break- 
ing its  dark  surface  with  a  bright  streak.  The  pick- 
erel leaped  from  among  the  lily-pads.  The  turtle, 
sunning  itself  upon  a  rock,  or  at  the  root  of  a  tree, 
slid  suddenly  into  the  water  with  a  plunge.  The 
painted  Indian,  who  paddled  his  canoe  along  the  As- 
sabeth  three  hundred  years  ago,  could  hardly  have 
seen  a  wilder  gentleness  displayed  upon  its  banks,  and 
reflected  in  its  bosom,  than  we  did. 

Nor  could  the  same  Indian  have  prepared  his  noon- 
tide meal  with  more  simplicity.  We  drew  up  our  skiff 
at  some  point  where  the  over-arching  shade  formed  a 
natural  bower,  and  there  kindled  a  fire  with  the  pine- 
cones  and  decayed  branches  that  lay  strewn  plentifully 
around.  Soon  the  smoke  ascended  among  the  trees, 
impregnated  with  a  savory  incense,  not  heavy,  dull, 
and  surfeiting,  like  the  steam  of  cookery  within  doors, 
but  sprightly  and  piquant.  The  smell  of  our  feast 
was  akin  to  the  woodland  odors  with  which  it  min- 
gled ;  there  was  no  sacrilege  committed  by  our  intru- 
sion there;  the  sacred  solitude  was  hospitable,  and 
granted  us  free  leave  to  cook  and  eat,  in  the  recess 
that  was  at  once  our  kitchen  and  banqueting  hall.  It 
is  strange  what  humble  offices  may  be  performed,  in 
*a  beautiful  scene,  without  destroying  its  poetry.  Our 
[fire,  red  gleaming  among  the  trees,  and  we  beside  it, 


THE   OLD    MANSE  21 

busied  with  culinary  rites  and  spreading  out  our  meal 
on  a  moss-grown  log,  all  seemed  in  unison  with  the 
river  gliding  by,  and  the  foliage  rustling  over  us. 
And,  what  was  strangest,  neither  did  our  mirth  seem 
to  disturb  the  propriety  of  the  solemn  woods ;  although 
the  hobgoblins  of  the  old  wilderness,  and  the  will-of- 
the-wisps  that  glimmered  in  the  marshy  places,  might 
have  come  trooping  to  share  our  table-talk,  and  have 
added  their  shrill  laughter  to  our  merriment.  It  was 
the  very  spot  in  which  to  utter  the  extremest  non- 
sense, or  the  profoundest  wisdom  —  or  that  ethereal 
product  of  the  mind  which  partakes  of  both,  and  may 
become  one  or  the  other,  in  correspondence  with  the 
faith  and  insight  of  the  auditor. 

So,  amid  sunshine  and  shadow,  rustling  leaves,  and 
sighing  waters,  up-gushed  our  talk,  like  the  babble  of 
a  fountain.  The  evanescent  spray  was  Ellery's ;  and 
his,  too,  the  lumps  of  golden  thought,  that  lay  glim- 
mering in  the"  fountain's 'bed,  and  Brightened  both  our 
fac^s_J2y_Jhe_j^flectioiL.  Could  he  have  drawn  out 


that  virgin  gold,  and  stamped  it  with  the  mint-mark 
that  alone  gives  currency,  the  world  might  have  had 
the  profit,  and  he  the  fame.  My  mind  was  the  richer, 
merely  by  the  knowledge  that  it  was  there.  But  the 
chief  profit  of  those  wild  days,  to  him  and  me,  lay  — 
not  in  any  definite  idea  —  not  in  any  angular  or 
rounded  Jruth,  which  we  dug  out  of  the  shapeless 
mass  of  problematical  stuff  —  but  in  the  freedom  which 
we  thereby  won  from  all  custom  and  conventionalism, 
and  fettering  influences  of  man  on  man.  We  were 
so  free  to-day,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  slaves 
again  to-morrow.  When  we  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  house,  or  trod  the  thronged  pavements  of  a 
city,  still  the  leaves  of  the  trees  that  overhang  the 
Assabeth  were  whispering  to  us  — "  Be  free !  Be 
free !  "  Therefore,  along  that  shady  river  bank,  there 
are  spots,  marked  with  a  heap  of  ashes  and  half -con- 
sumed brands,  only  less  sacred  in  my  remembrance 
than  the  hearth  of  a  household  fire. 

And    yet    how    sweet  —  as    we    floated    homeward 


22     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

adown  the  golden  river,  at  sunset  —  how  sweet  was  it 
to  return  within  the  system  of  human  society,  not  as 
to  a  dungeon  and  a  chain,  but  as  to  a  stately  edifice, 
where  we  could  go  forth  at  will  into  statelier  simplic- 
ity !  How  gently,  too,  did  the  sight  of  the  Old  Manse 

—  best   seen   from   the   river,    overshadowed   with    its 
willow,  and  all  environed  about  with  the  foliage  of  its 
orchard  and  avenue  —  how  gently  did  its  gray  homely 
aspect   rebuke   the   speculative    extravagances    of    the 
day !     It   had   grown   sacred,  in   connection   with   the 
artificial  life  against  which  we  inveighed ;  it  had  been 
a  home,  for  many  years,  in    spite   of   all ;    it  was    my 
home,  too;    and,   with   these   thoughts,    it   seemed   to 
me  that  all  the  artifice  and  conventionalism  of  life  was 
but  an  impalpable  thinness  upon  its  surface,  and  that 
the  depth  below  was  none  the  worse  for  it.     Once  as 
we  turned  our  boat  to  the  bank,  there  was  a  cloud,  in 
the  shape  of  an  immensely  gigantic  figure  of  a  hound, 
couched  above  the  house,  as  if  keeping  guard  over  it. 
Gazing  at  this  symbol,  I  prayed  that  the  upper  influ- 
ences  might    long   protect    the   institutions   that    had 
grown  out  of  the  heart  of  mankind. 

If  ever  my  readers  should  decide  to  give  up  civilized 
life,  —  cities,  houses,  and  whatever  moral  or  material 
enormities,  in  addition  to  these,  the  perverted  ingenuity 
of  our  race  has  contrived, — let  it  be  in  the  early 
autumn.  Then  nature  will  love  him  better  than  at  any 
other  season,  and  will  take  him  to  her  bosom  with  a 
more  motherly  tenderness.  I  could  scarcely  endure  the 
roof  of  the  old  house  above  me,  in  those  first  autumnal 
days.  How  early  in  the  summer,  too,  the  prophecy  of 
autumn  comes  !  —  earlier  in  some  years  than  in  others, 

—  sometimes  even  in  the  first  weeks  of  July.     There  is 
no  other  feeling  like  what  is  caused  by  this  faint,  doubt- 
ful, yet  real  perception,  if  it  be  not  rather  a  foreboding, 
of  the  year's  decay  —  so  blessedly  sweet  and  sad,  in  the 
same  breath.     Did  I  say  that  there  was  no  feeling  like 
it  ?     Ah  ;  but  there  is  a  half-acknowledged  melancholy, 
like  to  this,  when  we  stand  in  the  perfected  vigor  of  our 
life,  and  feel  that  Time  has  now  given  us  all  his  flowers- 


THE   OLD    MANSE  23 

and  that  the  next  work  of  his  never  idle  fingers  must  be 
—  to  steal  them,  one  by  one,  away ! 

I  have  forgotten  whether  the  song  of  the  cricket  be 
not  as  early  a  token  of  autumn's  approach  as  any 
other ;  —  that  song,  which  may  be  called  an  audible 
stillness ;  for,  though  very  loud  -and  heard  afar,  yet  the 
mind  does  not  take  note  of  it  as  a  sound ;  so  completely 
is  its  individual  existence  merged  among  the  accom- 
panying characteristics  of  the  season.  Alas,  for  the 
pleasant  summer-time  !  In  August  the  grass  is  still 
verdant  on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys ;  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  is  as  dense  as  ever,  and  as  green ;  the  flowers 
gleam  forth  in  richer  abundance  along  the  margin  of 
the  river,  and  by  the  stone-walls,  and  deep  among  the 
woods ;  the  days,  too,  are  as  fervid  now  as  they  were  a 
month  ago  ;  —  and  yet,  in  every  breath  of  wind,  and  in 
every  beam  of  sunshine,  we  hear  the  whispered  fare- 
well, and  behold  the  parting  smile,  of  a  dear  friend. 
There  is  a  coolness  amid  all  the  heat;  a  mildness  in 
the  blazing  noon.  Not  a  breeze  can  stir,  but  it  thrills 
us  with  the  breath  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory  is  seen 
in  the  far,  golden  gleams,  among  the  shadows  of  the 
trees.  The  flowers  —  even  the  brightest  of  them,  and 
they  are  the  most  gorgeous  of  the  year  —  have  this 
gentle  sadness  wedded  to  their  pomp,  and  typify  the 
character  of  the  delicious  time,  each  within  itself.  The 
brilliant  cardinal  flower  has  never  seemed  gay  to  me. 

Still  later  in  the  season,  Nature's  tenderness  waxes 
stronger.  It  is  impossible  not  to  be  fond  of  our  Mother 
now ;  for  she  is  so  fond  of  us  !  At  other  periods,  she 
does  not  make  this  impression  on  me,  or  only  at  rare 
intervals ;  but,  in  those  genial  days  of  autumn,  when 
she  has  perfected  her  harvests,  and  accomplished  every 
needful  thing  that  was  given  her  to  do,  then  she  over- 
flows with  a  blessed  superfluity  pf  love.  She  has  lei- 
sure to  caress  her  children  now.  /  It  is  good  to  be  alive, 
and  at  such  times.  Thank  heaven  for  breath  !  —  yes, 
for  mere  breath !  —  when  it  is  made  up  of  a  heavenly 
breeze  like  this.  It  comes  with  a  real  kiss  upon  our 
cheeks ;  it  would  linger  fondly  around  us,  if  it  might ; 


/ 


24     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

but,  since  it  must  be  gone,  it  embraces  us  with  its  whole 
kindly  heart,  and  passes  onward,  to  embrace  likewise 
the  next  thing  that  it  meets.  A  blessing  is  flung 
abroad,  and  scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  earth,  to  be 
gathered  up  by  all  who  choose.  I  recline  upon  the  still 
\  j  unwithered  grass,  and  whisper  to  myself:  —  "Oh,  per- 
fect day  !  —  Oh,  beautiful  world  !  —  Oh,  beneficent 
God  !  "  And  it  is  the  promise  of  a  blessed  Eternity  ; 
for  our  Creator  would  never  have  made  such  lovely 
days,  and  have  given  us  the  deep  hearts  to  enjoy  them, 
above  and  beyond  all  thought,  unless  we  were  meant 
•o  to  be  immortal.  This  sunshine  is  the  golden  pledge 
thereof.  It  beams  through  the  gates  of  Paradise,  and 
shows  us  glimpses  far  inward. 

By  and  by  —  in  a  little  time  —  the  outward  world  puts 
on  a  drear  austerity.  On  some  October  morning,  there 
is  a  heavy  hoar-frost  on  the  grass,  and  along  the  tops  of 
the  fences  ;  and,  at  sunrise,  the  leaves  fall  from  the 
trees  of  our  avenue  without  a  breath  of  wind,  quietly 
descending  by  their  own  weight.  All  summer  long, 
they  have  murmured  like  the  noise  of  waters  ;  they  have 
roared  loudly,  while  the  branches  were  wrestling  with 
the  thunder-gust  ;  they  have  made  music,  both  glad  and 
solemn  ;  they  have  attuned  my  thoughts  by  their  quiet 
sound,  as  I  paced  to-and-fro  beneath  the  arch  of  inter- 
mingling boughs.  Now,  they  can  only  rustle  under  my 
feet.  Henceforth,  the  gray  parsonage  begins  to  assume 
a  larger  importance,  and  draws  to  its  fireside  —  for  the 
abomination  of  the  air-tight  stove  is  reserved  till  wintry 
weather  —  draws  closer  and  closer  to  its  fireside  the 
vagrant  impulses,  that  had  gone  wandering  about, 
through  the  summer. 

When  summer  was  dead  and  buried,  the  Old  Manse 
became  as  lonely  as  a  hermitage.  Not  that  ever  —  in 
my  time,  at  least  —  it  had  been  thronged  with  company. 
But,  at  no  rare  intervals,  we  welcomed  some  friend  out 
of  the  dusty  glare  and  tumult  of  the  world,  and  rejoiced 
to  share  with  him  the  transparent  obscurity  that  was 
floating  over  us.  In  one  respect,  our  precincts  were 
like  the  Enchanted  Ground,  through  which  the  pilgrim 


THE   OLD    MANSE  25 

travelled  on  his  way  to  the  Celestial  City.  The  guests, 
each  and  all,  felt  a  slumberous  influence  upon  them ; 
they  fell  asleep  in  chairs,  or  took  a  more  deliberate 
siesta  on  the  sofa ;  or  were  seen  stretched  among  the 
shadows  of  the  orchard,  looking  up  dreamily  through 
the  boughs.  They  could  not  have  paid  a  more  accept- 
able compliment  to  my  abode,  nor  to  my  own  qualities  as 
a  host.  I  held  it  as  a  proof  that  they  left  their  cares 
behind  them,  as  they  passed  between  the  stone  gate- 
posts, at  the  entrance  of  our  avenue ;  and  that  the  so 
powerful  opiate  was  the  abundance  of  peace  and  quiet 
within  and  all  around  us.  Others  could  give  them 
pleasure  and  amusement,  or  instruction  —  these  could 
be  picked  up  anywhere  —  but  it  was  for  me  to  give 
them  rest.  Rest,  in  a  life  of  trouble  !  What  better 
could  be  done  for  those  weary  and  world- worn  spirits  ? 
—  for  him,  whose  career  of  perpetual  action  was  im- 
peded and  harassed  by  the  rarest  of  his  powers,  and  the 
richest  of  his  acquirements  ?  —  for  another,  who  had 
thrown  his  ardent  heart,  from  earliest  youth,  into  the 
strife  of  politics,  and  now,  perchance,  began  to  suspect 
that  one  lifetime  is  too  brief  for  the  accomplishment  of 
any  lofty  aim  ?  —  for  her,  on  whose  feminine  nature 
had  been  imposed  the  heavy  gift  of  intellectual  power, 
such  as  a  strong  man  might  have  staggered  under,  and 
with  it  the  necessity  to  act  upon  the  world  ?  —  in  a 
word,  not  to  multiply  instances,  what  better  could  be 
done  for  anybody,  who  came  within  our  magic  circle, 
than  to  throw  the  spell  of  a  magic  spirit  over  him  ? 
And  when  it  had  wrought  its  full  effect,  then  we  dis- 
missed him,  with  but  misty  reminiscences,  as  if  he  had 
been  dreaming  of  us. 

Were  I  to  adopt  a  pet  idea,  as  so  many  people  do, 
and  fondle  it  in  my  embraces  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
others,  it  would  be,  that  the  great  want  which  mankind 
labors  under,  at  this  present  period,  is  —  Sleep  !  The>s^ 
world  should  recline  its  vast  head  on  the  first  conven- 
ient pillow,  and  take  an  age-long  nap.  It  has  gone 
distracted,  through  a  morbid  activity,  and,  while  preter- 
naturally  wide-awake,  is  nevertheless  tormented  by 


26     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

visions,  that  seem  real  to  it  now,  but  would  assume 
their  true  aspect  and  character,  were  all  things  once 
set  right  by  an  interval  of  sound  repose.  This  is  the 
only  method  of  getting  rid  of  old  delusions,  and  avoid- 
ing new  ones  —  of  regenerating  our  race,  so  that  it 
might  in  due  time  awake,  as  an  infant  out  of  dewy 
slumber  —  of  restoring  to  us  the  simple  perception  of 
what  is  right,  and  the  single-hearted  desire  to  achieve 
it ;  both  of  which  have  long  been  lost,  in  consequence 
of  this  weary  activity  of  brain,  and  torpor  or  passion  of 
the  heart,  that  now  afflict  the  universe.  Stimulants, 
the  only  mode  of  treatment  hitherto  attempted,  cannot 
quell  the  disease ;  they  do  but  heighten  the  delirium. 

Let  not  the  above  paragraph  ever  be  quoted  against 
the  author ;  for,  though  tinctured  with  its  modicum  of 
truth,  it  is  the  result  and  expression  of  what  he  knew, 
while  he  was  writing  it,  to  be  but  a  distorted  survey  of 
the  state  and  prospects  of  mankind.  There  were  cir- 
cumstances around  me,  which  made  it  difficult  to  view 
the  world  precisely  as  it  exists ;  for,  severe  and  sober 
as  was  the  Old  Manse,  it  was  necessary  to  go  but  a 
little  way  beyond  its  threshold,  before  meeting  with 
stranger  moral  shapes  of  men  than  might  have  been 
encountered  elsewhere,  in  a  circuit  of  a  thousand  miles. 

These  hobgoblins  of  flesh  and  blood  were  attracted 
thither  by  the  wide-spreading  influence  of  a  great  origi- 
nal Thinker,  who  had  his  earthly  abode  at  the  opposite 
extremity  of  our  village.  His  mind  acted  upon  other 
minds,  of  a  certain  constitution,  with  wonderful  mag- 
netism, and  drew  many  men  upon  long  pilgrimages, 
to  speak  with  him  face  to  face.  Young  visionaries  —  to 
whom  just  so  much  of  insight  had  been  imparted,  as  to 
make  life  all  a  labyrinth  around  them  —  came  to  seek 
the  clew  that  should  guide  them  out  of  their  self- 
involved  bewilderment.  Gray-headed  theorists  —  whose 
systems,  at  first  air,  had  finally  imprisoned  them  in  an 
iron  framework  —  travelled  painfully  to  his  door,  not  to 
ask  deliverance,  but  to  invite  the  free  spirit  into  their 
own  thraldom.  People  that  had  lighted  on  a  new 
thought,  or  a  thought  that  they  fancied  new,  came  to 


THE   OLD    MANSE  27 

Emerson,  as  the  finder  of  a  glittering  gem  hastens  to  a 
lapidary,  to  ascertain  its  quality  and  value.     Uncertain, 
troubled,  earnest  wanderers,  through  the    midnight  of 
I  the  moral  world,  beheld  his  intellectual  fire,  as  a  beacon 
[  burning  on  a  hilltop,  and  climbing  the  difficult  ascent, 
1  looked  forth  into  the  surrounding  obscurity,  more  hope- 
fully than  hitherto.     The  light  revealed  objects  unseen 
before  —  mountains,  gleaming  lakes,  glimpses  of  a  crea- 
tion among  the  chaos  —  but  also,  as  was  unavoidable,  it 
attracted  bats  and  owls,  and  the  whole  host  of  night- 
birds,   which   flapped   their    dusky   wings   against   the 
gazer's  eyes,  and  sometimes  were  mistaken  for  fowls 
of  angelic  feather.     Such  delusions  always  hover  nigh, 
whenever  a  bea.con  fire  of  truth  is  kindled. 
/     For  myself,  there  had  been  epochs  of  my  life  when  I, 
I  too,  might  have  asked  of  this  prophet  the  master-word 
Ithat  should  solve  me  the  riddle  of  the  universe.     But 
jnow,  being  happy,  I  felt  as  if  there  were  no  question 
/to  be  put,  and  therefore  admired  Emerson  as  a  poet  of 
deep  beauty  and  austere  tenderness,  but  sought  nothing 
from  him  as  a  philosopher.     It  was  good,  nevertheless, 
to  meet  him  in  the   woodpaths   or    sometimes  in  our 
/avenue,  with  th^j-ym-pJntpTjprtiial  glpqm  diffused  about 
/his  presence,  like  the  garment  of^ jajshining  nnp  ;  and  he, 
so  quiet,  so  simple,  so  without  pretension,  encountering 
I  each  man  alive  as  if  expecting  to  receive  more  than  he 
could  impart.    And,  in  truth,  the  heart  of  many  an  ordi- 
nary man  had,  perchance,  inscriptions  which  he  could 
not  read.     But  it  was  impossible  to  dwell  in  his  vicinity, 
without   inhaling,   more   or  less,   the   mountain   atmos- 
phere  of   his    lofty  thought,   which,  in  the   brains   of 
some  people,  wrought  a  singular  giddiness  —  new  truth 
1  being  as  heady  as  new  wine.     Never  was  a  poor  little 
'country  village  infested  with  such  a  variety  of  queer, 
strangely  dressed,  oddly  behaved  mortals,  most  of  whom 
took  upon  themselves  to  be  important   agents  of   the 
world's  destiny,  yet  were  simply  bores,  of  a  very  intense 
water.  /Such,  I  imagine,  is  the  invariable  character  of 
persons  who  crowd  so  closely  about  an  original  thinker, 
as  to  draw  in  his  unuttered  breath,  and  thus  become 


28     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

imbued  with  a  false  originality.    This  triteness  of  novelty 
is  enough  to  make  any  man,  of   common  sense,  bias- 1 
pheme  at  all  ideas  of  less  than  a  century's  standing  / 
and  pray  that  the  world  may  be  petrified  and  rendered 
immovable,  in  precisely  the  worst  moral  and  physical 
state  that  it  ever  yet  arrived  at,  rather  than  be  benefited 
by  such  schemes  of  such  philosophers. 

And  now,  I  begin  to  feel  —  and  perhaps  should  have 
sooner  felt  —  that  we  have  talked  enough  of  the  Old 
Manse.  Mine  honored  reader,  it  may  be,  will  vilify  the 
poor  author  as  an  egotist,  for  babbling  through  so  many 
pages  about  a  moss-grown  country  parsonage,  and  his 
life  within  its  walls,  and  on  the  river,  and  in  the  woods, 
—  and  the  influences  that  wrought  upon  him,  from  all 
these  sources.  My  conscience,  however,  does  not  re- 
proach me  with  betraying  anything  too  sacredly  indi- 
vidual to  be  revealed  by  a  human  spirit  to  its  brother  or 
sister  spirit.  How  narrow  —  how  shallow  and  scanty 
too  —  is  the  stream  of  thought  that  has  been  flowing 
from  my  pen,  compared  with  the  broad  tide  of  dim 
emotions,  ideas,  and  associations,  which  swell  around 
me  from  that  portion  of  my  existence!  How  little  have 
I  told  !  —  and  of  that  little,  how  almost  nothing  is  even 
tinctured  with  any  quality  that  makes  it  exclusively  my 
own !  Has  the  reader  gone  wandering,  hand  in  hand 
with  me,  through  the  inner  passages  of  my  being,  and 
have  we  groped  together  into  all  its  chambers,  and  ex- 
amined their  treasures  or  their  rubbish  ?  Not  so.  We 
have  been  standing  on  the  greensward,  but  just  within 
the  cavern's  mouth,  where  the  common  sunshine  is  free 
to  penetrate,  and  where  every  footstep  is  therefore  free 
to  come.  I  have  appealed  to  no  sentiment  or  sensibili- 
ties, save  such  as  are  diffused  among  us  all.  So  far  as 

am  a  man  of  really  individual  attributes,  I  veil  my 
face ;  nor  am  I,  nor  have  I  ever  been,  one  of  those 
supremely  hospitable  people,  who  serve  up  their  own 
hearts  delicately  fried,  with  brain-sauce,  as  a  tidbit  for 
their  beloved  public.  -  ta_ 

Glancing  back  over  what  I  have  written,  it  seems  but 
the  scattered  reminiscences  of  a  single  summer.  In 


THE   OLD    MANSE  29 

fairy-land,  there  is  no  measurement  of  time ;  and,  in  a 
spot  so  sheltered  from  the  turmoil  of  life's  ocean,  three 
years  hasten  away  with  a  noiseless  flight,  as  the  breezy 
sunshine  chases  the  cloud-shadows  across  the  depths  of 
a  still  valley.  Now  came  hints,  growing  more  and  more 
distinct,  that  the  owner  of  the  old  house  was  pining  for 
his  native  air.  Carpenters  next  appeared,  making  a 
tremendous  racket  among  the  out-buildings,  strewing 
green  grass  with  pine-shavings  and  chips  of  chestnut 
joists,  and  vexing  the  whole  antiquity  of  the  place  with 
their  discordant  renovations.  Soon,  moreover,  they  di- 
vested our  abode  of  the  veil  of  woodbine  which  had 
crept  over  a  large  portion  of  its  southern  face.  All  the 
aged  mosses  were  cleared  unsparingly  away ;  and  there 
were  horrible  whispers  about  brushing  up  the  external 
walls  with  a  coat  of  paint  —  a  purpose  as  little  to  my 
taste  as  might  be  that  of  rouging  the  venerable  cheeks 
of  one's  grandmother.  But  the  hand  that  renovates  is 
always  more  sacrilegious  than  that  which  destroys.  In 
fine,  we  gathered  up  our  household  goods,  drank  a  fare- 
well cup  of  tea  in  our  pleasant  little  breakfast-room  — 
delicately  fragrant  tea,  an  unpurchasable  luxury,  one  of 
the  many  angel-gifts  that  had  fallen  like  dew  upon  us 

—  and  passed  forth  between  the  tall  stone  gate-posts,  as 
uncertain  as  the  wandering  Arabs  where  our  tent  might 
next  be  pitched.     Providence  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 

—  an  oddity  of  dispensation  which,  I  trust,  there  is  no 
irreverence  in  smiling  at  —  has   led  me,   as  the  news- 
papers  announce   while    I   am  writing,  from  the  Old 
Manse  into  a  Custom-House !     As  a  story-teller,  I  have 
often  contrived  strange  vicissitudes  for  my  imaginary 
personages,  but  none  like  this. 

The  treasure  of  intellectual  gold,  which  I  had  hoped 
to  find  in  our  secluded  dwelling,  had  never  come  to  light. 
No  profound  treatise  of  ethics  —  no  philosophic  history 

—  no  novel,  even,  that  could  stand  unsupported  on  its 
edges  —  all  that  I  had  to  show,  as  a  man  of  letters,  were 
these  few  tales  and  essays,  which  had  blossomed  out  like 
flowers  in  the  calm  summer  of  my  heart  and  mind.    Save 
editing  (an  easy  task)  the  journal  of  my  friend  of  many 


30     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

years,  the  African  Cruiser,  I  had  done  nothing  else. 
With  these  idle  weeds  and  withering  blossoms,  I  have 
intermixed  some  that  were  produced  long  ago  —  old, 
faded  things,  reminding  me  of  flowers  pressed  between 
the  leaves  of  a  book  —  and  now  offer  the  bouquet,  such 
as  it  is,  to  any  whom  it  may  please.  These  fitful  sketches, 
with  so  little  of  external  life  about  them,  yet  claiming  no 
profundity  of  purpose,  —  so  reserved,  even  while  they 
sometimes  seem  so  frank,  —  often  but  half  in  earnest, 
.and  never,  when  most  so,  expressing  satisfactorily  the 
^thoughts  which  they  profess  to  image  —  such  trifles,  I 
truly  feel,  afford  no  solid  basis  for  a  literary  reputation. 
Nevertheless,  the  public  —  if  my  limited  number  of 
readers,  whom  I  venture  to  regard  rather  as  a  circle  of 
friends,  may  be  termed  a  public  —  will  receive  them  the 
more  kindly,  as  the  last  offering,  the  last  collection  of 
this  nature,  which  it  is  my  purpose  ever  to  put  forth. 
Unless  I  could  do  better,  I  have  done  enough,  in  this 
kind.  For  myself,  the  book  will  always  retain  one  charm, 
as  reminding  me  of  the  river,  with  its  delightful  solitudes, 
and  of  the  avenue,  the  garden,  and  the  orchard,  and 
especially  the  dear  Old  Manse,  with  the  little  study  on 
its  western  side,  and  the  sunshine  glimmering  through 
the  willow-branches,  while  I  wrote. 

Let  the  reader,  if  he  will  do  me  so  much  honor,  imagine 
himself  my  guest,  and  that,  having  seen  whatever  may 
be  worthy  of  notice,  within  and  about  the  Old  Manse, 
he  has  finally  been  ushered  into  my  study.  There,  after 
seating  him  in  an  antique  elbow-chair,  an  heirloom  of 
the  house,  I  take  forth  a  roll  of  manuscript,  and  entreat 
his  attention  to  the  following  tales  :  —  an  act  of  personal 
inhospitality,  however,  which  I  never  was  guilty  of,  nor 
ever  will  be,  even  to  my  worst  enemy. 


THE   BIRTH-MARK 

IN  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century,  there  lived  a  man 
of  science  —  an  eminent  proficient  in  every  branch 
of  natural  philosophy  —  who,  not  long  before  our  story 
opens,  had  made  experience  of  a  spiritual  affinity,  more 
attractive  than  any  chemical  one.  He  had  left  his  labo- 
ratory to  the  care  of  an  assistant,  cleared  his  fine  coun- 
tenance from  the  furnace-smoke,  washed  the  stain  of 
acids  from  his  fingers,  and  persuaded  a  beautiful  woman 
to  become  his  wife.  In  those  days,  when  the  compara- 
tively recent  discovery  of  electricity,  and  other  kindred 
mysteries  of  nature,  seemed  to  open  paths  into  the  region 
of  miracle,  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  love  of  science 
to  rival  the  love  of  Woman,  in  its  depth  and  absorbing 
energy.  The  higher  intellect,  the  imagination,  the  spirit, 
and  even  the  heart,  might  all  find  their  congenial  ali- 
ment in  pursuits  which,  as  some  of  their  ardent  votaries 
believed,  would  ascend  from  one  step  of  powerful  intelli- 
gence to  another,  until  the  philosopher  should  lay  his 
hand  on  the  secret  of  creative  force,  and  perhaps  make 
new  worlds  for  himself.  We  know  not  whether  Aylmer 
possessed  this  degree  of  faith  in  man's  ultimate  control 
over  nature.  He  had  devoted  himself,  however,  too  un- 
reservedly to  scientific  studies,  ever  to  be  weaned  from 
them  by  any  second  passion.  His  love  for  his  young 
wife  might  prove  the  stronger  of  the  two ;  but  it  could 
only  be  by  intertwining  itself  with  his  love  of  science, 
and  uniting  the  strength  of  the  latter  to  its  own. 

Such  an  union  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  at- 
tended with  trulv  remarkable  consequences,  and  a>  deeply 
impressive  moral^  One  day,  very  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage, Aylmer  sat  gazing  at  his  wife,  with  a  trouble  in 
his  countenance  that  grew  stronger,  until  he  spoke. 

"  Georgiana,"  said  he,  "  has  it  never  occurred  to  you 
that  the  mark  upon  your  cheek  might  be  removed  ? " 
31 


32     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  smiling ;  but  perceiving  the 
seriousness  of  his  manner,  she  blushed  deeply.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  it  has  been  so  often  called  a  charm, 
that  I  was  simple  enough  to  imagine  it  might  be  so." 

"  Ah,  upon  another  face,  perhaps  it  might,"  replied 
her  husband.  "  But  never  on  yours !  No,  dearest 
Georgiana,  you  came  so  nearly  perfect  from  the  hand 
of  Nature,  that  this  slightest  possible  defect  —  which 
we  hesitate  whether  to  term  a  defect  or  a  beauty  — 
shocks  me,  as  being  the  visible  mark  of  earthly  imper- 
fection." 

"  Shocks  you,  my  husband  !  "  cried  Georgiana,  deeply 
hurt ;  at  first  reddening  with  momentary  anger,  but  then 
bursting  into  tears.  "  Then  why  did  you  take  me  from 
my  mother's  side  ?  You  cannot  love  what  shocks  you!" 

To  explain  this  conversation,  it  must  be  mentioned, 
that,  in  the  centre  of  Georgiana's  left  cheek,  there  was 
a  singular  mark,  deeply  interwoven,  as  it  were,  with  the 
texture  and  substance  of  her  face.  In  the  usual  state 
of  her  complexion,  —  a  healthy,  though  delicate  bloom, 
— 'the  mark  wore  a  tint  of  deeper  crimson,  which  imper- 
fectly defined  its  shape  amid  the  surrounding  rosiness. 
When  she  blushed,  it  gradually  became  more  indistinct, 
and  finally  vanished  amid  the  triumphant  rush  of  blood, 
that  bathed  the  whole  cheek  with  its  brilliant  glow. 
But,  if  any  shifting  emotion  caused  her  to  turn  pale, 
there  was  the  mark  again,  a  crimson  stain  upon  the 
snow,  in  what  Aylmer  sometimes  deemed  an  almost  fear- 
ful distinctness.  Its  shape  bore. not  a  little  similarity 
to  the  human  hand,  though  of  the  smallest  pygmy  size. 
Georgiana's  lovers  were  wont  to  say,  that  some  fairy, 
at  her  birth-hour,  had  laid  her  tiny  hand  upon  the  in- 
fant's cheek,  and  left  this  impress  there,  in  token  of  the 
magic  endowments  that  were  to  give  her  such  sway 
over  all  hearts.  Many  a  desperate  swain  would  have 
risked  life  for  the  privilege  of  pressing  his  lips  to  the 
mysterious  hand.  It  must  not  be  concealed,  however, 
that  the  impression  wrought  by  this  fairy  sign-manual 
varied  exceedingly,  according  to  the  difference  of  tem- 
perament in  the  beholders.  Some  fastidious  persons  — 


THE   BIRTH-MARK  33 

but  they  were  exclusively  of  her  own  sex  —  affirmed  that 
the  Bloody  Hand,  as  they  chose  to  call  it,  quite  de- 
stroyed the  effect  of  Georgiana's  beauty,  and  rendered 
her  countenance  even  hideous.  But  it  would  be  as 
reasonable  to  say,  that  one  of  those  small  blue  stains, 
which  sometimes  occur  in  the  purest  statuary  marble, 
would  convert  the  Eve  of  Powers  to  a  monster.  Mas- 
culine observers,  if  the  birth-mark  did  not  heighten  their 
admiration,  contented  themselves  with  wishing  it  away, 
that  the  world  might  possess  one  living  specimen  of  ideal 
loveliness,  without  the  semblance  of  a  flaw.  After  his 
marriage  —  for  he  thought  little  or  nothing  of  the  mat- 
ter before  —  Aylmer  discovered  that  this  was  the  case 
with  himself. 

Had  she  been  less  beautiful  —  if  Envy's  self  could 
have  found  aught  else  to  sneer  at  —  he  might  have  felt 
his  affection  heightened  by  the  prettiness  of  this  mimic 
hand,  now  vaguely  portrayed,  now  lost,  now  stealing 
forth  again,  and  glimmering  to-and-fro  with  every  pulse 
of  emotion  that  throbbed  within  her  heart.  But,  seeing 
her  'otherwise  so  perfect,  he  found  this  one  defect  grow  . 
more  and  morX  intolerable,  with  every  moment  of  their 
united  lives,/  It  was  the  fatal  flaw  of  humanity,  which 


Nature,  in  'one  shape  or  another, 
on  all  her  productions,  either  to  imply^that  the,y  ar^/ 
temporary  and  finite,  or  that  their  perfection  must  be 
wrought  by  toil  and  pain.  The  Crimson  Hand  ex- 
pressed the  ineludible  gripe,  in  which  mortality  clutches 
the  highest  and  purest  of  earthly  inoiild^  degrading 
them  into  kindred  with  the  lowest,  and  even  with  the 
very  brutes,  like  whom  their  visible  frames  return  to 
dust.  In  this  manner,  selecting  it  as  the  symbol  of  his 
wife's  liability  to  sin,  sorrow,  decay,  and  death,  Aylmer's 
sombre  imagination  was  not  long  in  rendering  the  birth- 
mark a  frightful  object,  causing  him  more  trouble  and 
horror  than  ever  Georgiana's  beauty,  whether  of  soul 
or  sense,  had  given  him  delight. 

At  all  the  seasons  which  should  have  been  their  hap- 
piest, he  invariably,  and  without  intending  it  —  nay,  in 
spite  of  a  purpose  to  the  contrary  —  reverted  to  this  one 


34     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

disastrous  topic.  Trifling  as  it  at  first  appeared,  it  so 
connected  itself  with  innumerable  trains  of  thought,  and 
modes  of  feeling,  that  it  became  the  central  point  of  all. 
With  the  morning  twilight,  Aylmer  opened  his  eyes 
upon  his  wife's  face,  and  recognized  the  symbol  of  im- 
perfection ;  and  when  they  sat  together  at  the  evening 
hearth,  his  eyes  wandered  stealthily  to  her  cheek,  and 
beheld,  flickering  with  the  blaze  of  the  wood  fire,  the 
spectral  Hand  that  wrote  mortality  where  he  would  fain 
have  worshipped.  Georgiana  soon  learned  to  shudder 
at  his  gaze.  It  needed  but  a  glance,  with  the  peculiar 
expression  that  his  face  often  wore,  to  change  the  roses 
of  her  cheek  into  a  deathlike  paleness,  amid  which  the 
Crimson  Hand  was  brought  strongly  out,  like  a  bas- 
relief  of  ruby  on  the  whitest  marble. 

Late,  one  night,  when  the  lights  were  growing  dim, 
so  as  hardly  to  betray  the  stain  on  the  poor  wife's 
cheek,  she  herself,  for  the  first  time,  voluntarily  took  up 
the  subject. 

"  Do  you  remember,  my  dear  Aylmer,"  said  she, 
with  a  feeble  attempt  at  a  smile  —  "  have  you  any  recol- 
lection of  a  dream,  last  night,  about  this  odious  Hand  ?  " 

"  None !  —  none  whatever! "  replied  Aylmer,  starting ; 
but  then  he  added  in  a  dry,  cold  tone,  affected  for  the 
sake  of  concealing  the  real  depth  of  his  emotion  :  —  "I 
might  well  dream  of  it ;  for,  before  I  fell  asleep,  it  had 
taken  a  pretty  firm  hold  of  my  fancy." 

"And  you  did  dream  of  it,"  continued  Georgiana, 
hastily;  for  she  dreaded  lest  a  gush  of  tears  should 
interrupt  what  she  had  to  say  —  "A  terrible  dream  !  I 
wonder  that  you  can  forget  it.  Is  it  possible  to  forget 
this  one  expression  ?  —  'It  is  in  her  heart  now  —  we 
must  have  it  out ! '  —  Reflect,  my  husband ;  for  by  all 
means  I  would  have  you  recall  that  dream." 

The  mind  is  in  a  sad  state,  when  Sleep,  the  all-involv- 
ing, cannot  confine  her  spectres  within  the  dim  region 
of  her  sway,  but  suffers  them  to  break  forth,  affrighting 
this  actual  life  with  secrets  that  perchance  belong  to  a 
deeper  one.  Aylmer  now  remembered  his  dream.  He 
had  fancied  himself,  with  his  servant  Aminadab,  at- 


THE   BIRTH-MARK  35 

tempting  an  operation  for  the  removal  of  the  birth-mark. 
But  the  deeper  went  the  knife,  the  deeper  sank  the 
Hand,  until  at  length  its  tiny  grasp  appeared  to  have 
caught  hold  of  Georgiana's  heart ;  whence,  however, 
her  husband  was  inexorably  resolved  to  cut  or  wrench 
it  away. 

When  the  dream  had  shaped  itself  perfectly  in  his 
memory,  Aylmer  sat  in  his  wife's  presence  with  a  guilty 
feeling.  Truth  often  finds  its  way  to  the  mind  close- 
muffled  in  robes  of  sleep,  and  then  speaks  with  uncom- 
promising directness  of  matters  in  regard  to  which  we 
practise  an  unconscious  self-deception,  during  our  wak- 
ing moments.  Until  now,  he  had  not  been  aware  of 
the  tyrannizing  influence  acquired  by  one  idea  over  his 
mind,  and  of  the  lengths  which  he  might  find  in  his 
heart  to  go,  for  the  sake  of  giving  himself  peace. 

"  Aylmer,"  resumed  Georgiana,  solemnly,  "  I  know 
not  what  may  be  the  cost  to  both  of  us,  to  rid  me  of  this 
fatal  birth-mark.  Perhaps  its  removal  may  cause  cure- 
less deformity.  Or,  it  may  be,  the  stain  goes  as  deep 
as  life  itself.  Again,  do  we  know  that  there  is  a  possi- 
bility, on  any  terms,  of  unclasping  the  firm  gripe  of  this 
little  Hand,  which  was  laid  upon  me  before  I  came  into 
the  world  ? " 

"  Dearest  Georgiana,  I  have  spent  much  thought 
upon  the  subject,"  hastily  interrupted  Aylmer  —  "I  am 
convinced  of  the  perfect  practicability  of  its  removal." 

"  If  there  be  the  remotest  possibility  of  it,"  continued' 
Georgiana,  "  let  the  attempt  be  made,  at  whatever  risk. 
Danger  is  nothing  to  me ;  for  life  —  while  this  hateful 
mark  makes  me  the  object  of  your  horror  and  disgust  — 
life  is  a  burthen  which  I  would  fling  down  with  joy. 
Either  remove  this  dreadful  Hand,  or  take  my  wretched 
life !  You  have  deep  science !  All  the  world  bears 
witness  of  it.  You  have  achieved  great  wonders !  Can- 
not you  remove  this  little,  little  mark,  which  I  cover 
with  the  tips  of  two  small  fingers !  Is  this  beyond  your 
power,  for  the  sake  of  your  own  peace,  and  to  save  your 
poor  wife  from  madness  ?  " 

"  Noblest  —  dearest  —  tenderest  wife !  "  cried  Aylmer, 


36     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

rapturously.  "  Doubt  not  my  power.  I  have  already 
given  this  matter  the  deepest  thought  —  thought  which 
might  almost  have  enlightened  me  to  create  a  being  less 
perfect  than  yourself.  Georgiana,  you  have  led  me 
deeper  than  ever  into  the  heart  of  science.  I  feel  my- 
self fully  competent  to  render  this  dear  cheek  as  fault- 
less as  its  fellow ;  and  then,  most  beloved,  what  will  be 
my  triumph,  when  I  shall  have  corrected  what  Nature 
left  imperfect,  in  her  fairest  work!  Even  Pygmalion, 
when  his  sculptured  woman  assumed  life,  felt  not 
greater  ecstasy  than  mine  will  be." 

"  It  is  resolved,  then,"  said  Georgiana,  faintly  smiling, 
—  "and,  Aylmer,  spare  me  not,  though  you  should  find 
the  birth-mark  take  refuge  in  my  heart  at  last." 

Her  husband  tenderly  kissed  her  cheek  —  her  right 
cheek  —  not  that  which  bore  the  impress  of  the  Crimson 
Hand. 

The  next  day,  Aylmer  apprised  his  wife  of  a  plan  that 
he  had  formed,  whereby  he  might  have  opportunity  for 
the  intense  thought  and  constant  watchfulness  which 
the  proposed  operation  would  require ;  while  Georgiana, 
likewise,  would  enjoy  the  perfect  repose  essential  to  its 
success.  They  were  to  seclude  themselves  in  the  ex- 
tensive apartments  occupied  by  Aylmer  as  a  labora- 
tory, and  where,  during  his  toilsome  youth,  he  had  made 
discoveries  in  the  elemental  powers  of  nature,  that  had 
roused  the  admiration  of  all  the  learned  societies  in 
Europe.  Seated  calmly  in  this  laboratory,  the  pale  phi- 
losopher had  investigated  the  secrets  of  the  highest 
cloud-region  and  of  the  profoundest  mines ;  he  had 
satisfied  himself  of  the  causes  that  kindled  and  kept 
alive  the  fires  of  the  volcano ;  and  had  explained  the 
mystery  of  fountains,  and  how  it  is  that  they  gush  forth, 
some  so  bright  and  pure,  and  others  with  such  rich 
medicinal  virtues,  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Here,  too,  at  an  earlier  period,  he  had  studied  the  won- 
ders of  the  human  frame,  and  attempted  to  fathom  the 
very  process  by  which  Nature  assimilates  all  her 
precious  influences  from  earth  and  air,  and  from  the 
spiritual  world,  to  create  and  foster  Man,  her  master- 


THE   BTRTH-MARK  37 

piece.  The  latter  pursuit,  however,  Aylmer  had  long 
laid  aside,  in  unwilling  recognition  of  the  truth,  against 
which  all  seekers  sooner  or  later  stumble,  that  our  great 
creative  Mother,  while  she  amuses  us  with  apparently 
working  in  the  broadest  sunshine,  is  yet  severely  careful 
to  keep  her  own  secrets,  and,  in  spite  of  her  pretended 
openness,  shows  us  nothing  but  results.  She  permits 
us  indeed  to  mar,  but  seldom  to  mend,  and,  like  a  jealous 
patentee,  on  no  account  to  make.  Now,  however, 
Aylmer  resumed  these  half-forgotten  investigations ; 
not,  of  course,  with  such  hopes  or  wishes  as  first  sug- 
gested them ;  but  because  they  involved  much  physio- 
logical truth,  and  lay  in  the  path  of  his  proposed  scheme 
for  the  treatment  of  Georgiana. 

As  he  led  her  over  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory, 
Georgiana  was  cold  and  tremulous.  Aylmer  looked 
cheerfully  into  her  face,  with  intent  to  reassure  her,  but 
was  so  startled  with  the  intense  glow  of  the  birth-mark 
upon  the  whiteness  of  her  cheek,  that  he  could  not 
restrain  a  strong  convulsive  shudder.  His  wife  fainted. 

"  Aminadab  !  Aminadab  !  "  shouted  Aylmer,  stamping 
violently  on  the  floor. 

Forthwith,  there  issued  from  an  inner  apartment  a 
man  of  low  stature,  but  bulky  frame,  with  shaggy  hair 
hanging  about  his  visage,  which  was  grimed  with  the 
vapors  of  the  furnace.  This  personage  had  been 
Aylmer's  underworker  during  his  whole  scientific  career, 
and  was  admirably  fitted  for  that  office  by  his  great 
mechanical  readiness,  and  the  skill  with  which,  while 
incapable  of  comprehending  a  single  principle,  he  exe- 
cuted all  the  practical  details  of  his  master's  experi- 
ments. With  his  vast  strength,  his  shaggy  hair,  his 
smoky  aspect,  and  the  indescribable  earthiness  that 
encrusted  him,  he  seemed  to  represent  man's  physical 
nature  ;  while  Aylmer's  slender  figure,  and  pale,  intel- 
lectual face,  were  no  less  apt  a  type  of  the  spiritual 
element. 

"Throw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  Aminadab," 
said  Aylmer,  "  and  burn  a  pastille." 

"  Yes,  master,"  answered  Aminadab,  looking  intently 


38     MOSSES   FROM   AM   OLD    MANSE 

at  the^fdS)form  of  Georgiana ;  and  then  he  muttered 
to  himself  :  —  "If  she  were  my  wife,  I  'd  never  part  with 
that  birth-mark." 

When  Georgiana  recovered  consciousness,  she  found 
herself  breathing  an  atmosphere  of  penetrating  fra- 
grance, the  gentle  potency  of  which  had  recalled  her 
from  her  deathlike  faintness.  The  scene  around  her 
looked  like  enchantment.  Aylmer  had  converted  those 
smoky,  dingy,  sombre  rooms,  where  he  had  spent  his 
brightest  years  in  recondite  pursuits,  into  a  series  of 
beautiful  apartments,  not  unfit  to  be  the  secluded  abode 
of  a  lovely  woman.  The  walls  were  hung  with  gorgeous 
curtains,  which  imparted  the  combination  of  grandeur 
and  grace,  that  no  other  species  of  adornment  can 
achieve  ;  and  as  they  fell  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  their 
rich  and  ponderous  folds,  concealing  all  angles  and 
straight  lines,  appeared  to  shut  in  the  scene  from  infinite 
space.  For  aught  Georgiana  knew,  it  might  be  a  pa- 
vilion among  the  clouds.  And  Aylmer,  excluding  the 
sunshine,  which  would  have  interfered  with  his  chemical 
processes,  had  supplied  its  place  with  perfumed  lamps, 
emitting  flames  of  various  hue,  but  all  uniting  in  a  soft, 
empurpled  radiance.  He  now  knelt  by  his  wife's  side, 
watching  her  earnestly,  but  without  alarm ;  for  he  was 
confident  in  his  science,  and  felt  that  he  could  draw  a 
magic  circle  round  her,  within  which  no  evil  might 
intrude. 

"Where  am  I? — Ah,  I  remember!  "  said  Georgiana, 
faintly  ;  and  she  placed  her  hand  over  her  cheek,  to  hide 
the  terrible  mark  from  her  husband's  eyes. 

"  Fear  not,  dearest !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  Do  not  shrink 
from  me  !  Believe  me,  Georgiana,  I  even  rejoice  in  this 
single  imperfection,  since  it  will  be  such  a  rapture  to 
remove  it." 

"  Oh,  spare  me !  "  sadly  replied  his  wife.  "  Pray  do 
not  look  at  it  again.  I  never  can  forget  that  convulsive 
shudder." 

In  order  to  soothe  Georgiana,  and,  as  it  were,  to  release 
her  mind  from  the  burthen  of  actual  things,  Aylmer  now 
put  in  practice  some  of  the  light  and  playful  secrets 


THE    BIRTH-MARK  39 

which  science  had  taught  him  among  its  profounder 
lore.  Airy  figures,  absolutely  bodiless  ideas,  and  forms 
of  unsubstantial  beauty  came  and  danced  before  her, 
imprinting  their  momentary  footsteps  on  beams  of  light. 
Though  she  had  some  indistinct  idea  of  the  method  of 
these  optical  phenomena,  still  the  illusion  was  almost 
perfect  enough  to  warrant  the  belief  that  her  husband 
possessed  sway  over  the  spiritual  world.  Then  again, 
when  she  felt  a  wish  to  look  forth  from  her  seclusion, 
immediately,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  answered,  the  pro- 
cession of  external  existence  flitted  across  a  screen.  The 
scenery  and  the  figures  of  actual  life  were  perfectly 
represented,  but  with  that  bewitching,  yet  indescribable 
difference,  which  always  makes  a  picture,  an  image,  or 
a  shadow  so  much  more  attractive  than  the  original. 
When  wearied  of  this,  Aylmer  bade  her  cast  her  eyes 
upon  a  vessel,  containing  a  quantity  of  earth.  She  did 
so,  with  little  interest  at  first,  but  was  soon  startled,  to 
perceive  the  germ  of  a  plant,  shooting  upward  from  the 
soil.  Then  came  the  slender  stalk  —  the  leaves  gradu- 
ally unfolded  themselves  —  and  amid  them  was  a  perfect 
and  lovely  flower. 

"  It  is  magical !  "  cried  Georgiana.  "  I  dare  not  touch 
it." 

"  Nay,  pluck  it,"  answered  Aylmer,  "  pluck  it,  and 
inhale  its  brief  perfume  while  you  may.  The  flower  will 
wither  in  a  few  moments,  and  leave  nothing  save  its 
brown  seed-vessels  —  but  thence  may  be  perpetuated  a 
race  as  ephemeral  as  itself." 

/  But  Georgiana  had  no  sooner  touched  the  flower  than 
the  whole  plant  suffered  a  blight,  its  Leaves  turning  coal- 
black,  as  if  by  the  agency  of  fire.  / 

"  There  was  too  powerful  a  stimulus,"  said  Aylmer, 
thoughtfully. 

To  make  up  for  this  abortive  experiment,  he  proposed 
to  take  her  portrait  by  a  scientific  process  of  his  own 
invention.  It  was  to  be  effected  by  rays  of  light  strik- 
ing upon  a  polished  plate  of  metal.  Georgiana  assented 
—  but,  on  looking  at  the  result,  was  affrighted  to  find 
the  features  of  the  portrait  blurred  and  indefinable; 


4o     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

while  the  minute  figure  of  a  hand  appeared  where  the 
cheek  should  have  been.  Aylmer  snatched  the  metallic 
plate,  and  threw  it  into  a  jar  of  corrosive  acid. 

Soon,  however,  he  forgot  these  mortifying  failures. 
In  the  intervals  of  study  and  chemical  experiment,  he 
came  to  her,  flushed  and  exhausted,  but  seemed  invigo- 
rated by  her  presence,  and  spoke  in  glowing  language  of 
the  resources  of  his  art.  He  gave  a  history  of  the  long 
dynasty  of  the  Alchemists,  who  spent  so  many  ages  in 
quest  of  the  universal  solvent,  by  which  the  Golden  Prin- 
ciple might  be  elicited  from  all  things  vile  and  base. 
Aylmer  appeared  to  believe,  that,  by  the  plainest  scien- 
tific logic,  it  was  altogether  within  the  limits  of  possibility 
to  discover  this  long-sought  medium ;  but,  he  added,  a 
philosopher  who  should  go  deep  enough  to  acquire  the 
power,  would  attain  too  lofty  a  wisdom  to  stoop  to  the 
exercise  of  it.  Not  less  singular  were  his  opinions  in 
regard  to  the  Elixir  Vitae.  He  more  than  intimated, 
that  it  was  at  his  option  to  concoct  a  liquid  that  should 
prolong  life  for  years  —  perhaps  interminably  —  but  that 
it  would  produce  a  discord  in  nature,  which  all  the  world, 
and  chiefly  the  quaffer  of  the  immortal  nostrum,  would 
find  cause  to  curse. 

"Aylmer,  are  you  in  earnest?"  asked  Georgiana,  look- 
ing at  him  with  amazement  and  fear ;  "it  is  terrible  to 
possess  such  power,  or  even  to  dream  of  possessing  it ! " 

"  Oh,  do  not  trouble,  my  love ! "  said  her  husband, 
"  I  would  not  wrong  either  you  or  myself,  by  working 
such  inharmonious  effects  upon  our  lives.  But  I  would 
have  you  consider  how  trifling,  in  comparison,  is  the  skill 
requisite  to  remove  this  little  Hand." 

At  the  mention  of  the  birth-mark,  Georgiana,  as  usual, 
shrank,  as  if  a  red-hot  iron  had  touched  her  cheek. 

Again  Aylmer  applied  himself  to  his  labors.  She 
could  hear  his  voice  in  the  distant  furnace-room,  giving 
directions  to  Aminadab,  whose  harsh,  uncouth,  misshapen 
tones  were  audible  in  response,  more  like  the  grunt  or 
growl  of  a  brute  than  human  speech.  After  hours  of 
absence,  Aylmer  reappeared,  and  proposed  that  she  should 
now  examine  his  cabinet  of  chemical  products,  and  natural 


THE   BIRTH-MARK  41 

treasures  of  the  earth.  Among  the  former  he  showed 
her  a  small  vial,  in  which,  he  remarked,  was  contained 
a  gentle  yet  most  powerful  fragrance,  capable  of  im- 
pregnating all  the  breezes  that  blow  across  a  kingdom. 
They  were  of  inestimable  value,  the  contents  of  that 
little  vial ;  and,  as  he  said  so,  he  threw  some  of  the  per- 
fume into  the  air,  and  filled  the  room  with  piercing  and 
invigorating  delight. 

"  And  what  is  this  ?  "  asked  Georgiana,  pointing  to  a 
small  crystal  globe,  containing  a  gold-colored  liquid. 
"  It  is  so  beautiful  to  the  eye,  that  I  could  imagine  it 
the  Elixir  of  Life." 

"  In  one  sense  it  is,"  replied  Alymer,  "  or  rather  the 
Elixir  of  Immortality.  It  is  the  most  precious  poison 
that  ever  was  concocted  in  this  world.  By  its  aid,  I 
could  apportion  the  lifetime  of  any  mortal  at  whom  you 
might  point  your  finger.  The  strength  of  the  dose  would 
determine  whether  he  were  to  linger  out  years,  or  drop 
dead  in  the  midst  of  a  breath.  No  king,  on  his  guarded 
throne,  could  keep  his  life,  if  I,  in  my  private  station, 
should  deem  that  the  welfare  of  millions  justified  me  in 
depriving  him  of  it." 

"  Why  do  you  keep  such  a  terrific  drug  ? "  inquired 
Georgiana,  in  horror. 

"  Do  not  mistrust  me,  dearest ! "  said  her  husband, 
smiling;  "its  virtuous  potency  is  yet  greater  than  its 
harmful  one.  But,  see!  here  is  a  powerful  cosmetic. 
With  a  few  drops  of  this,  in  a  vase  of  water,  freckles 
may  be  washed  away  as  easily  as  the  hands  are 
cleansed.  A  stronger  infusion  would  take  the  blood 
out  of  the  cheek,  and  leave  the  rosiest  beauty  a  pale 
ghost." 

"  Is  it  with  this  lotion  that  you  intend  to  bathe  my 
cheek  ?  "  asked  Georgiana,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no!"  hastily  replied  her  husband,  —  "this  is 
merely  superficial.  Your  case  demands  a  rgjpfrty  tha±. 
shall  go  deeper." 

In  his  interviews  with  Georgiana,  Aylmer  generally 
made  minute  inquiries  as  to  her  sensations,  and  whether 
the  confinement  of  the  rooms,  and  the  temperature  of 


42     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  atmosphere,  agreed  with  her.  These  questions  had 
such  a  particular  drift,  that  Georgiana  began  to  conjec- 
ture that  she  was  already  subjected  to  certain  physical 
influences,  either  breathed  in  with  the  fragrant  air,  or 
taken  with  her  food.  She  fancied,  likewise  —  but  it 
might  be  altogether  fancy  —  that  there  was  a  stirring 
up  of  her  system :  a  strange,  indefinite  sensation  creep- 
ing through  her  veins,  and  tingling,  half-painfully,  half- 
pleasurably,  at  her  heart.  Still,  whenever  she  dared  to 
look  into  the  mirror,  there  she  beheld  herself,  pale  as  a 
white  rose,  and  with  the  crimson  birth-mark  stamped 
upon  her  cheek.  Not  even  Aylmer  now  hated  it  so 
much  as  she. 

To  dispel  the  tedium  of  the  hours  which  her  husband 
found  it  necessary  to  devote  to  the  processes  of  combi- 
nation and  analysis,  Georgiana  turned  over  the  volumes 
of   his   scientific   library.      In   many   dark   old^  tomes, 
she  met  with   chapters   full   of   romance   and   poetry^ 
They  were  the  works  of  the  philosophers  of  the  middle^ 
ages,  such   as   Albertus    Magnus,   Cornelius   AgrippaX 
Paracelsus,   and    the   famous    friar   who    created    thej 
prophetic  Brazen  Head.     All  these  antique  naturalists  I 
stood  in  advance  of  their  centuries,  yet  were  imbued  \ 
with  some  of  their  credulity,  and  therefore  were  be-  j 
lieved,  and  perhaps  imagined  themselves,  to  have  ac- 
quired from  the  investigation  of  nature  a  power  above 
nature,  and   from   physics   a   sway  over   the   spiritual 
world.     Hardly  less  curious  and  imaginative  were  the 
early  volumes  of  the  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Soci- 
ety, in  which  the  members,  knowing  little  of  the  limits 
of  natural  possibility,  were  continually  recording  won- 
ders, or  proposing  methods  whereby  wonders  might  be 
wrought. 

But,  to  Georgiana,  the  most  engrossing  volume  was 
a  large  folio  from  her  husband's  own  hand,  in  which 
he  had  recorded  every  experiment  of  his  scientific 
career,  with  its  original  aim,  the  methods  adopted  for 
its  development,  and  its  final  success  or  failure,  with 
the  circumstances  to  which  either  event  was  attrib- 
utable. The  book,  in  truth,  was  both  the  history 


THE   BIRTH-MARK  43 

and  emblem  of  his  ardent,  ambitious,  imaginative,  yet 
practical  and  laborious,  life.  He  handled  physical 
details,  as  if  there  were  nothing  beyond  them ;  yet 
spiritualized  them  all,  and  redeemed  himself  from 
materialism,  by  his  strong  and  eager  aspiration  towards 
the  infinite.  In  his  grasp,  the  veriest  clod  of  earth 
assumed  a  soul.  Georgiana,  as  she  read,  reverenced 
Aylmer,  and  loved  him  more  profoundly  than  ever,  but 
with  a  less  entire  dependence  on  his  judgment  than 
heretofore.  Much  as  he  had  accomplished,  she  could 
not  but  observe  that  his  most  splendid  successes  were 
almost  invariably  failures,  if  compared  with  the  ideal 
at  which  he  aimed.  His  brightest  diamonds  were  the 
merest  pebbles,  and  felt  to  be  so  by  himself,  in  com- 
parison with  the  inestimable  gems  which  lay  hidden 
beyond  his  reach.  The  volume,  rich  with  achieve- 
ments, that  had  won  renown  for  its  author,  was  yet  as 
melancholy  a  record  as  ever  mortal  hand  had  penned. 
It  was  the  sad  confession,  and  continual  exemplification, 
of  the  shortcomings  of  the  composite  man  —  the  spirit 
burdened  with  clay  and  working  in  matter;  and  of 
the  despair  that  assails  the  higher  nature,  at  finding 
itself  so  miserably  thwarted  by  the  earthly  part.  Per- 
haps every  man  of  genius,  in  whatever  sphere,  might 
recognize  the  image  of  his  own  experience  in  Aylmer's 
journal. 


So  deeply  did  these  reflections  affect  Georgiana,  that 
she  laid  her  face  upon  the  open  volume,  and  burst 
into  tears.  In  this  situation  she  was  found  by  her 
husband. 

"  It  is  dangerous  to  read  in  a  sorcerer's  books," 
said  he,  with  a  smile,  though  his  countenance  was 
uneasy  and  displeased.  "Georgiana,  there  are  pages 
in  that  volume  which  I  can  scarcely  glance  over  and 
keep  my  senses.  Take  heed  lest  it  prove  as  detrimental 
to  you ! " 

"  It  has  made  me  worship  you  more  than  ever,"  said 
she. 

"  Ah  !  wait  for  this  one  success,"  rejoined  he,  "  then 
worship  me  if  you  will.  I  shall  deem  myself  hardly 


44     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

unworthy  of  it.  But,  come !  I  have  sought  you  for  the 
luxury  of  your  voice.  Sing  to  me,  dearest!  " 

So  she  poured  out  the  liquid  music  of  her  voice  to 
quench  the  thirst  of  his  spirit.  He  then  took  his  leave, 
with  a  boyish  exuberance  of  gayety,  assuring  her  that 
her  seclusion  would  endure  but  a  little  longer,  and  that 
the  result  was  already  certain.  Scarcely  had  he  de- 
parted, when  Georgiana  felt  irresistibly  impelled  to 
follow  him.  She  had  forgotten  to  inform  Aylmer  of 
a  symptom,  which,  for  two  or  three  hours  past,  had 
begun  to  excite  her  attention.  It  was  a  sensation  in 
the  fatal  birth-mark,  not  painful,  but  which  induced  a 
restlessness  throughout  her  system.  Hastening  after 
her  husband,  she  intruded,  for  the  first  time,  into  the 
laboratory. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  her  eye  was  the  furnace, 
that  hot  and  feverish  worker,  with  the  intense  glow 
of  its  fire,  which,  by  the  quantities  of  soot  clustered 
above  it,  seemed  to  have  been  burning  for  ages. 
There  was  a  distilling  apparatus  in  full  operation. 
Around  the  room  were  retorts,  tubes,  cylinders,  cruci- 
bles, and  other  apparatus  of  chemical  research.  An 
electrical  machine  stood  ready  for  immediate  use.  The 
atmosphere  felt  oppressively  close,  and  was  tainted 
with  gaseous  odors,  which  had  been  tormented  forth 
by  the  processes  of  science.  The  severe  and  homely 
simplicity  of  the  apartment,  with  its  naked  walls  and 
brick  pavement,  looked  strange,  accustomed  as  Geor- 
giana had  become  to  the  fantastic  elegance  of  her 
boudoir.  But  what  chiefly,  indeed  almost  solely,  drew 
her  attention,  was  the  aspect  of  Aylmer  himself. 

He  was  pale  as  death,  anxious,  and  absorbed,  and 
hung  over  the  furnace  as  if  it  depended  upon  his 
utmost  watchfulness  whether  the  liquid,  which  it  was 
distilling,  should  be  the  draught  of  immortal  happiness 
or  misery.  How  different  from  the  sanguine  and 
joyous  mien  that  he  had  assumed  for  Georgiana's 
encouragement ! 

"  Carefully  now,  Aminadab  !  Carefully,  thou  human 
machine!  Carefully,  thou  man  of  clay!"  muttered 


THE    BIRTH-MARK  45 

Aylmer,  more  to  himself  than  his  assistant.  "  Now,  if 
there  be  a  thought  too  much  or  too  little,  it  is  all  over ! " 

"  Hoh  !  hoh  !  "  mumbled  Aminadab  —  "  look,  master, 
look !  " 

Aylmer  raised  his  eyes  hastily,  and  at  first  reddened, 
then  grew  paler  than  ever,  on  beholding  Georgiana. 
He  rushed  towards  her,  and  seized  her  arm  with  a  gripe 
that  left  the  print  of  his  fingers  upon  it. 

"Why  do  you  come  hither?  Have  you  no  trust  in 
your  husband?"  cried  he,  impetuously.  "Would  you 
throw  the  blight  of  that  fatal  birth-mark  over  my  labors  ? 
It  is  not  well  done.  Go,  prying  woman,  go  !  " 

"  Nay,  Aylmer,"  said  Georgiana,  with  the  firmness  of 
which  she  possessed  no  stinted  endowment,  "it  is  not 
you  that  have  a  right  to  complain.  You  mistrust  your 
wife  !  You  have  concealed  the  anxiety  with  which  you 
watch  the  development  of  this  experiment.  Think  not 
so  unworthily  of  me,  my  husband !  Tell  me  all  the  risk 
we  run ;  and  fear  not  that  I  shall  shrink,  for  my  share 
in  it  is  far  less  than  your  own !  " 

"No,  no,  Georgiana!"  said  Aylmer,  impatiently,  "it 
must  not  be." 

"I  submit,"  replied  she,  calmly.  "And,  Aylmer,  I 
shall  quaff  whatever  draught  you  bring  me ;  but  it  will 
be  on  the  same  principle  that  would  induce  me  to  take 
a  dose  of  poison,  if  offered  by  your  hand." 

"  My  noble  wife,"  said  Aylmer,  deeply  moved,  "  I 
knew  not  the  height  and  depth  of  your  nature,  until 
now.  Nothing  shall  be  concealed.  Know,  then,  that 
this  Crimson  Hand,  superficial  as  it  seems,  has  clutched 
its  grasp  into  your  being,  with  a  strength  of  which  I 
had  no  previous  conception.  I  have  already  adminis- 
tered agents  powerful  enough  to  do  aught  except  to 
change  your  entire  physical  system.  Only  one  thing 
remains  to  be  tried.  If  that  fail  us,  we  are  ruined  !  " 

"Why  did  you  hesitate  to  tell  me  this  ? "  asked  she. 

"  Because,  Georgiana,"  said  Aylmer,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  there  is  danger." 

"Danger?  There  is  but  one  danger  —  that  this 
horrible  stigma  shall  be  left  upon  my  cheek ! "  cried 


46     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

Georgiana.  "  Remove  it !  remove  it !  —  whatever  be 
the  cost  —  or  we  shall  both  go  mad  !  " 

"Heaven  knows,  your  words  are  too  true,"  said 
Aylmer,  sadly.  "  And  now,  dearest,  return  to  your 
boudoir.  In  a  little  while,  all  will  be  tested." 

He  conducted  her  back,  and  took  leave  of  her  with  a 
solemn  tenderness,  which  spoke  far  more  than  his  words 
how  much  was  now  at  stake.  After  his  departure, 
Georgiana  became  wrapt  in  musings.  She  considered 
the  character  of  Aylmer,  and  did  it  completer  justice 
than  at  any  previous  moment.  Her  heart  exulted,  while 
it  trembled,  at  his  honorable  love,  so  pure  and  lofty  that 
it  would  accept  nothing  less  than  perfection,  nor  miser- 
ably make  itself  contented  with  an  earthlier  nature  than 
he  had  dreamed  of.  She  felt  how  much  more  precious 
was  such  a  sentiment,  than  that  meaner  kind  which 
would  have  borne  with  the  imperfection  for  her  sake, 
and  have  been  guilty  of  treason  to  holy  love-  by  degrad- 
ing its  perfect  idea  to  the  level  of  the  actual.  And,  with 
her  whole  spirit,  she  prayed,  that,  for  a  single  moment, 
she  might  satisfy  his  highest  and  deepest  conception. 
Longer  than  one  moment,  she  well  knew,  it  could  not 
be ;  for  his  spirit  was  ever  on  the  march  —  ever  ascend- 
ing—  and  each  instant  required  something  that  was 
beyond  the  scope  of  the  instant  before. 

The  sound  of  her  husband's  footsteps  aroused  her. 
He  bore  a  crystal  goblet,  containing  a  liquor  colorless 
as  water,  but  bright  enough  to  be  the  draught  of  immor- 
tality. Aylmer  was  pale ;  but  it  seemed  rather  the  con- 
sequence of  a  highly  wrought  state  of  mind,  and  tension 
of  spirit,  than  of  fear  or  doubt. 

"The  concoction  of  the  draught  has  been  perfect," 
said  he,  in  answer  to  Georgiana's  look.  "  Unless  all  my 
science  have  deceived  me,  it  cannot  fail." 

"  Save  on  your  account,  my  dearest  Aylmer,"  observed 
his  wife,  "I  might  wish  to  put  off  this  birth-mark  of 
mortality  by  relinquishing  mortality  itself,  in  preference 
to  any  other  mode.  Life  is  but  a  sad  possession  to 
those  who  have  attained  precisely  the  degree  of  moral 
advancement  at  which  I  stand.  Were  I  weaker  and 


THE    BIRTH-MARK  47 

blinder,  it  might  be  happiness.  Were  I  stronger,  it 
might  be  endured  hopefully.  But,  being  what  I  find 
myself,  methinks  I  am  of  all  mortals  the  most  fit  to  die." 

"You  are  fit  for  heaven  without  tasting  death!"  re- 
plied her  husband.  "  But  why  do  we  speak  of  dying  ? 
The  draught  cannot  fail.  Behold  its  effect  upon  this 
plant !  " 

On  the  window-seat  there  stood  a  geranium,  diseased 
with  yellow  blotches,  which  had  overspread  all  its  leaves. 
Aylmer  poured  a  small  quantity  of  the  liquid  upon  the 
soil  in  which  it  grew.  In  a  little  time,  when  the  roots 
of  the  plant  had  taken  up  the  moisture,  the  unsightly 
blotches  began  to  be  extinguished  in  a  living  verdure. 

"There  needed  no  proof,"  said  Georgiana,  quietly. 
"Give  me  the  goblet  I  joyfully  stake  all  upon  your 
word." 

"Drink,  then,  thou  lofty  creature!"  exclaimed  Ayl- 
mer, with  fervid  admiration.  "  There  is  no  taint  of  im- 
perfection on  thy  spirit.  Thy  sensible  frame,  too,  shall 
soon  be  all  perfect." 

She  quaffed  the  liquid,  and  returned  the  goblet  to  his 
hand. 

"  It  is  grateful,"  said  she,  with  a  placid  smile.  "  Me- 
thinks  it  is  like  water  from  a  heavenly  fountain ;  for  it 
contains  I  know  not  what  of  unobtrusive  fragrance  and 
deliciousness.  It  allays  a  feverish  thirst,  that  had 
parched  me  for  many  days.  Now,  dearest,  let  me  sleep. 
My  earthly  senses  are  closing  over  my  spirit,  like  the 
leaves  around  the  heart  of  a  rose,  at  sunset." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  gentle  reluctance,  as 
if  it  required  almost  more  energy  than  she  could  com- 
mand to  pronounce  the  faint  and  lingering  syllables. 
Scarcely  had  they  loitered  through  her  lips,  ere  she  was 
lost  in  slumber.  Aylmer  sat  by  her  side,  watching  her 
aspect  with  the  emotions  proper  to  a  man,  the  whole 
value  of  whose  existence  was  involved  in  the  process 
now  to  be  tested.  Mingled  with  this  mood,  however, 
was  the  philosophic  investigation,  characteristic  of  the 
man  of  science.  Not  the  minutest  symptom  escaped 
him.  A  heightened  flush  of  the  cheek  —  a  slight  irregu- 


48     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

larity  of  breath  —  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid  —  a  hardly  per- 
ceptible tremor  through  the  frame  —  such  were  the 
details  which,  as  the  moments  passed,  he  wrote  down  in 
his  folio  volume.  Intense  thought  had  set  its  stamp 
upon  every  previous  page  of  that  volume ;  but  the 
thoughts  of  years  were  all  concentrated  upon  the  last. 

While  thus  employed,  he  failed  not  to  gaze  often  at 
the  fatal  Hand,  and  not  without  a  shudder.  Yet  once, 
by  a  strange  and  unaccountable  impulse,  he  pressed  it 
with  his  lips.  His  spirit  recoiled,  however,  in  the  very 
act,  and  Georgiana,  out  of  the  midst  of  her  deep  sleep, 
moved  uneasily  and  murmured,  as  if  in  remonstrance. 
Again,  Aylmer  resumed  his  watch.  Nor  was  it  without 
avail.  The  Crimson  Hand,  which  at  first  had  been 
strongly  visible  upon  the  marble  paleness  of  Georgiana's 
cheek,  now  grew  more  faintly  outlined.  She  remained 
not  less  pale  than  ever ;  but  the  birth-mark,  with  every 
breath  that  came  and  went,  lost  somewhat  of  its  former 
distinctness.  Its  presence  had  been  awful;  its  depar- 
ture was  more  awful  still.  Watch  the  stain  of  the  rain- 
bow fading  out  of  the  sky ;  and  you  will  know  how  that 
mysterious  symbol  passed  away. 

"  By  Heaven,  it  is  well-nigh  gone !  "  said  Aylmer  to 
himself,  in  almost  irrepressible  ecstasy.  "  I  can  scarcely 
trace  it  now.  Success !  Success !  And  now  it  is  like 
the  faintest  rose-color.  The  slightest  flush  of  blood 
across  her  cheek  would  overcome  it.  But  she  is  so 
pale ! " 

He  drew  aside  the  window-curtain,  and  suffered  the 
light  of  natural  day  to  fall  into  the  room,  and  rest  upon 
her  cheek.  At  the  same  time,  he  heard  a  gross,  hoarse 
chuckle,  which  he  had  long  known  as  his  servant  Amin- 
adab's  expression  of  delight. 

"  Ah,  clod !  Ah,  earthly  mass  !  "  cried  Aylmer,  laugh- 
ing in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  "You  have  served  me  well! 
Matter  and  Spirit — Earth  and  Heaven  —  have  both 
done  their  part  in  this !  Laugh,  thing  of  the  senses ! 
You  have  earned  the  right  to  laugh." 

These  exclamations  broke  Georgiana's  sleep.  She 
slowly  unclosed  her  eyes,  and  gazed  into  the  mirror, 


THE    BIRTH-MARK  49 

which  her  husband  had  arranged  for  that  purpose.  A 
faint  smile  flitted  over  her  lips,  when  she  recognized  how 
barely  perceptible  was  now  that  Crimson  Hand,  which 
had  once  blazed  forth  with  such  disastrous  brilliancy  as 
to  scare  away  all  their  happiness.  But  then  her  eyes 
sought  Aylmer's  face,  with  a  trouble  and  anxiety  that  he 
could  by  no  means  account  for. 

"  My  poor  Aylmer  !  "  murmured  she. 

"Poor?  Nay,  richest !  Happiest!  Most  favored !" 
exclaimed  he.  "  My  peerless  bride,  it  is  successful ! 
You  are  perfect  I " 

"  My  poor  Aylmer  !  "  she  repeated,  with  a  more  than 
human  tenderness.  "You  have  aimed  loftily!  —  you 
have  done  nobly !  Do  not  repent,  that,  with  so  high 
and  pure  a  feeling,  you  have  rejected  the  best  the  earth 
could  offer.  Aylmer —  dearest  Aylmer,  I  am  dying  !  " 

Alas,  it  was  too  true !  The  fatal  Hand  had  grappled 
with  the  mystery  of  life,  and  was  the  bond  by  which  an 
angelic  spirit  kept  itself  in  union  with  a  mortal  frame. 
As  the  last  crimson  tint  of  the  birth-mark  —  that  sole 
token  of  human  imperfection — faded  from  her  cheek, 
the  parting  breath  of  the  now  perfect  woman  passed  into 
the  atmosphere,  and  her  soul,  lingering  a  moment  near 
her  husband,  took  its  heavenward  flighfc  Then  a  hoarse, 
chuckling  laugh  was  heard  againJX'Thus  ever  does  the 
gross  Fatality  of  Earth  exult  in  its  invariable  triumph 
over  the  immortal  essence,  which,  in  this  dim  sphere  of 
half-deveiopment,  demands  the  completeness  of  a  higher 
state.  /i"et,  had  Aylmer  reached  a  profounder  wisdom, 
he  need  not  thus  have  flung  away  the  happiness  which 
would  have  woven  his  mortal  life  of  the  self-same  tex- 
ture with  the  celestial. /' The  momentary  circumstance 
was  too  strong  for  him ;  he  failed  to  look  beyond  the 
shadowy  scope  of  Time,  and  living  once  for  all  in 
Eternity,  to  find  the  perfect  Future  in  the  present. 


A  SELECT   PARTY 

A  MAN  OF  FANCY  made  an  entertainment  at  one 
of  his  castles  in  the  air,  and  invited  a  select  number 
of  distinguished  personages  to  favor  him  with  their  pres- 
ence. The  mansion,  though  less  splendid  than  many 
that  have  been  situated  in  the  same  region,  was,  never- 
theless, of  a  magnificence  such  as  is  seldom  witnessed 
by  those  acquainted  only  with  terrestrial  architecture. 
Its  strong  foundations  and  massive  walls  were  quarried 
out  of  a  ledge  of  heavy  and  sombre  clouds,  which  had 
hung  brooding  over  the  earth,  apparently  as  dense  and 
ponderous  as  its  own  granite,  throughout  a  whole  autum- 
nal day.  Perceiving  that  the  general  effect  was  gloomy 
—  so  that  the  airy  castle  looked  like  a  feudal  fortress,  or 
a  monastery  of  the  middle  ages,  or  a  state-prison  of  our 
own  times,  rather  than  the  home  of  pleasure  and  repose 
which  he  intended  it  to  be  —  the  owner,  regardless  of 
expense,  resolved  to  gild  the  exterior  from  top  to  bottom. 
Fortunately,  there  was  just  then  a  flood  of  evening  sun- 
shine in  the  air.  This  being  gathered  up  and  poured 
abundantly  upon  the  roof  and  walls,  imbued  them  with 
a  kind  of  solemn  cheerfulness ;  while  the  cupolas  and 
pinnacles  were  made  to  glitter  with  the  purest  gold,  and 
all  the  hundred  windows  gleamed  with  a  glad  light,  as  if 
the  edifice  itself  were  rejoicing  in  its  heart.  And  now, 
if  the  people  of  the  lower  world  chanced  to  be  looking 
upward,  out  of  the  turmoil  of  their  petty  perplexities, 
they  probably  mistook  the  castle  in  the  air  for  a  heap  of 
sunset  clouds,  to  which  the  magic  of  light  and  shade  had 
imparted  the  aspect  of  a  fantastically  constructed  man- 
sion. To  such  beholders  it  was  unreal,  because  they 
lacked  the  imaginative  faith.  Had  they  been  worthy  to 
pass  within  its  portal,  they  would  have  recognized  the 
truth,  that  the  dominions  which  the  spirit  conquers  for 
5° 


A   SELECT   PARTY  51 

itself  among  unrealities,  become  a  thousand  times  more 
real  than  the  earth  whereon  they  stamp  their  feet,  say- 
ing, "This  is  solid  and  substantial !  —  this  may  be  called 
a  fact!" 

At  the  appointed  hour,  the  host  stood  in  his  great 
saloon  to  receive  the  company.  It  was  a  vast  and  noble 
room,  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  which  was  supported  by 
double  rows  of  gigantic  pillars,  that  had  been  hewn 
entire  out  of  masses  of  variegated  clouds.  So  brilliantly 
were  they  polished,  and  so  exquisitely  wrought  by  the 
sculptor's  skill,  as  to  resemble  the  finest  specimens  of 
emerald,  porphyry,  opal,  and  chrysolite,  thus  producing 
a  delicate  richness  of  effect,  which  their  immense  size 
rendered  not  incompatible  with  grandeur.  To  each  of 
these  pillars  a  meteor  was  suspended.  Thousands  of 
these  ethereal  lustres  are  continually  wandering  about 
the  firmament,  burning  out  to  waste,  yet  capable  of  im- 
parting a  useful  radiance  to  any  person  who  has  the 
art  of  converting  them  to  domestic  purposes.  As  man- 
aged in  the  saloon,  they  are  far  more  economical  than 
ordinary  lamp-light.  Such,  however,  was  the  intensity 
of  their  blaze,  that  it  had  been  found  expedient  to  cover 
each  meteor  with  a  globe  of  evening  mist,  thereby 
muffling  the  too  potent  glow,  and  soothing  it  into  a  mild 
and  comfortable  splendor.  It  was  like  the  brilliancy  of 
a  powerful,  yet  chastened,  imagination ;  a  light  which 
seemed  to  hide  whatever  was  unworthy  to  be  noticed, 
and  give  effect  to  every  beautiful  and  noble  attribute. 
The  guests,  therefore,  as  they  advanced  up  the  centre 
of  the  saloon,  appeared  to  better  advantage  than  ever 
before  in  their  lives. 

The  first  that  entered,  with  old-fashioned  punctuality, 
was  a  venerable  figure  in  the  costume  of  bygone  days, 
with  his  white  hair  flowing  down  over  his  shoulders, 
and  a  reverend  beard  upon  his  breast.  He  leaned  upon 
a  staff,  the  tremulous  stroke  of  which,  as  he  set  it 
carefully  upon  the  floor,  re-echoed  through  the  saloon 
at  every  footstep.  Recognizing  at  once  this  celebrated 
personage,  whom  it  had  cost  him  a  vast  deal  of  trouble 
and  research  to  discover,  the  host  advanced  nearly  three- 


52     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

fourths  of  the  distance,  down  between  the  pillars,  to 
meet  and  welcome  him. 

"  Venerable  sir,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy,  bending  to 
the  floor,  "  the  honor  of  this  visit  would  never  be  for- 
gotten, were  my  term  of  existence  to  be  as  happily  pro- 
longed as  your  own." 

The  old  gentleman  received  the  compliment  with 
gracious  condescension ;  he  then  thrust  up  his  spec- 
tacles over  his  forehead,  and  appeared  to  take  a  critical 
survey  of  the  saloon. 

"  Never,  within  my  recollection,"  observed  he,  "  have 
I  entered  a  more  spacious  and  noble  hall.  But  are  you 
sure  that  it  is  built  of  solid  materials,  and  that  the 
structure  will  be  permanent?" 

"  Oh,  never  fear,  my  venerable  friend,"  replied  the 
host.  "  In  reference  to  a  lifetime  like  your  own,  it  is 
true,  my  castle  may  well  be  called  a  temporary  edifice. 
But  it  will  endure  long  enough  to  answer  all  the  pur- 
poses for  which  it  was  erected." 

But  we  forget  that  the  reader  has  not  yet  been  made 
acquainted  with  the  guest.  It  was  no  other  than  that 
universally  accredited  character,  so  constantly  referred 
to  in  all  seasons  of  intense  cold  or  heat  —  he  that  re- 
members the  hot  Sunday  and  the  cold  Friday  —  the  wit- 
ness of  a  past  age,  whose  negative  reminiscences  find 
their  way  into  every  newspaper,  yet  whose  antiquated 
and  dusky  abode  is  so  overshadowed  by  accumulated 
years,  and  crowded  back  by  modern  edifices,  that  none 
but  the  Man  of  Fancy  could  have  discovered  it  —  it 
was,  in  short,  that  twin-brother  of  Time,  and  great- 
grandsire  of  mankind,  and  hand-and-glove  associate  of 
all  forgotten  men  and  things,  the  Oldest  Inhabitant! 
The  host  would  willingly  have  drawn  him  into  conver- 
sation, but  succeeded  only  in  eliciting  a  few  remarks  as 
to  the  oppressive  atmosphere  of  this  present  summer 
evening,  compared  with  one  which  the  guest  had  ex- 
perienced about  fourscore  years  ago.  The  old  gentle- 
man, in  fact,  was  a  good  deal  overcome  by  his  journey 
among  the  clouds,  which,  to  a  frame  so  earth-incrusted 
by  long  continuance  in  a  lower  region,  was  unavoidably 


A   SELECT   PARTY  53 

more  fatiguing  than  to  younger  spirits.  He  was  there- 
fore conducted  to  an  easy-chair,  well-cushioned,  and 
stuffed  with  vaporous  softness,  and  left  to  take  a  little 
repose. 

The  Man  of  Fancy  now  discerned  another  guest,  who 
stood  so  quietly  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  pillars,  that 
he  might  easily  have  been  overlooked. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  host,  grasping  him 
warmly  by  the  hand,  "allow  me  to  greet  you  as  the 
hero  of  the  evening.  Pray  do  not  take  it  as  an  empty 
compliment ;  for  if  there  were  not  another  guest  in  my 
castle,  it  would  be  entirely  pervaded  with  your  pres- 
ence ! " 

"  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  unpretending  stranger, 
"  but,  though  you  happened  to  overlook  me,  I  have 
not  just  arrived.  I  came  very  early,  and,  with  your 
permission,  shall  remain  after  the  rest  of  the  company 
have  retired." 

And  who  does  the  reader  imagine  was  this  unob- 
trusive guest?  It  was  the  famous  performer  of  ac-\ 
knowledged  impossibilities  ;  a  character  of  superhuman 
capacity  and  virtue,  and,  if  his  enemies  are  to  be 
credited,  of  no  less  remarkable  weaknesses  and  defects. 
With  a  generosity  of  which  he  alone  sets  us  the  ex- 
ample, we  will  glance  merely  at  his  nobler  attributes. 
He  it  is,  then,  who  prefers  the  interests  of  others  to  his 
own,  and  an  humble  station  to  an  exalted  one.  Care- 
less of  fashion,  custom,  the  opinions  of  men,  and  the 
influence  of  the  press,  he  assimilates  his  life  to  the 
standard  of  ideal  rectitude,  and  thus  proves  himself 
the  one  independent  citizen  of  our  free  country.  In 
point  of  ability,  many  people  declare  him  to  be  the  only 
mathematician  capable  of  squaring  the  circle ;  the  only 
mechanic  acquainted  with  the  principle  of  perpetual 
motion ;  the  only  scientific  philosopher  who  can  compel 
water  to  run  up  hill ;  the  only  writer  of  the  age  whose 
genius  is  equal  to  the  production  of  an  epic  poem  ;  and, 
finally  —  so  various  are  his  accomplishments  —  the  only 
professor  of  gymnastics  who  has  succeeded  in  jumping 
down  his  own  throat.  With  all  these  talents,  however, 


54     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

he  is  so  far  from  being  considered  a  member  of  good 
society,  that  it  is  the  severest  censure  of  any  fashionable 
assemblage  to  affirm  that  this  remarkable  individual 
was  present.  Public  orators,  lecturers,'  and  theatrical 
performers  particularly  eschew  his  company.  For  espe- 
cial reasons,  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  disclose  his  name, 
and  shall  mention  only  one  other  trait  —  a  most  singular 
phenomenon  in  natural  philosophy  —  that  when  he  hap- 
pens to  cast  his  eyes  upon  a  looking-glass  he  beholds 
Nobody  reflected  there ! 

Several  other  guests  now  made  their  appearance,  and 
among  them,  chattering  with  immense  volubility,  a  brisk 
little  gentleman  of  universal  vogue  in  private  society, 
and  not  unknown  in  the  public  journals,  under  the  title 
of  Monsieur  On-Dit.  The  name  would  seem  to  indicate 
a  Frenchman ;  but  whatever  be  his  country,  he  is  thor- 
oughly versed  in  all  the  languages  of  the  day,  and  can 
express  himself  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose  in  English 
as  in  any  other  tongue.  No  sooner  were  the  ceremonies 
of  salutation  over,  than  this  talkative  little  person  put 
his  mouth  to  the  host's  ear,  and  whispered  three  secrets 
of  state,  an  important  piece  of  commercial  intelligence, 
and  a  rich  item  of  fashionable  scandal.  He  then  assured 
the  Man  of  Fancy  that  he  would  not  fail  to  circulate  in 
the  society  of  the  lower  world  a  minute  description  of 
this  magnificent  castle  in  the  air,  and  of  the  festivities 
at  which  he  had  the  honor  to  be  a  guest.  So  saying, 
Monsieur  On-Dit  made  his  bow  and  hurried  from  one  to 
another  of  the  company,  with  all  of  whom  he  seemed  to 
be  acquainted,  and  to  possess  some  topic  of  interest 
or  amusement  for  every  individual.  Coming  at  last  to 
the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  who  was  slumbering  comfortably 
in  the  easy-chair,  he  applied  his  mouth  to  that  venerable 
ear. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  starting 
from  his  nap,  and  putting  up  his  hand  to  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  an  ear-trumpet 

Monsieur  On-Dit  bent  forward  again,  and  repeated 
his  communication. 

"  Never,  within  my  memory,"  exclaimed  the  Oldest 


A   SELECT   PARTY  55 

Inhabitant,  lifting  his  hands  in  astonishment,  "  has  so 
remarkable  an  incident  been  heard  of ! " 

Now  came  in  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather,  who  had  been 
invited  out  of  deference  to  his  official  station,  although 
the  host  was  well  aware  that  his  conversation  was  likely 
to  contribute  but  little  to  the  general  enjoyment.  He 
soon,  indeed,  got  into  a  corner  with  his  acquaintance  of 
long  ago,  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  and  began  to  compare 
notes  with  him  in  reference  to  the  great  storms,  gales  of 
wind,  and  other  atmospherical  facts  that  had  occurred 
during  a  century  past.  It  rejoiced  the  Man  of  Fancy, 
that  his  venerable  and  much  respected  guest  had  met 
with  so  congenial  an  associate.  Entreating  them  both 
to  make  themselves  perfectly  at  home,  he  now  turned 
to  receive  the  Wandering  Jew.  This  personage,  how- 
ever, had  latterly  grown  so  common,  by  mingling  in  all 
sorts  of  society,  and  appearing  at  the  beck  of  every 
entertainer,  that  he  could  hardly  be  deemed  a  proper 
guest  in  a  very  exclusive  circle.  Besides,  being  covered 
with  dust  from  his  continual  wanderings  along  the  high- 
ways of  the  world,  he  really  looked  out  of  place  in  a 
dress  party,  so  that  the  host  felt  relieved  of  an  incom- 
modity  when  the  restless  individual  in  question,  after 
a  brief  stay,  took  his  departure  on  a  ramble  towards 
Oregon. 

The  portal  was  now  thronged  by  a  crowd  of  shadowy 
people,  with  whom  the  Man  of  Fancy  had  been  acquainted 
iii  his  visionary  youth.  He  had  invited  them  hither  for 
the  sake  of  observing  how  they  would  compare,  whether 
advantageously  or  otherwise,  with  the  real  characters  to 
whom  his  maturer  life  had  introduced  him.  They  were 
beings  of  crude  imagination,  such  as  glide  before  a  young 
man's  eye,  and  pretend  to  be  actual  inhabitants  of  the 
earth ;  the  wise  and  witty,  with  whom  he  would  here- 
after hold  intercourse  ;  the  generous  and  heroic  friends, 
whose  devotion  would  be  requited  with  his  own ;  the 
beautiful  dream-woman,  who  would  become  the  help- 
mate of  his  human  toils  and  sorrows,  and  at  once  the 
source  and  partaker  of  his  happiness.  Alas !  it  is  not 
good  for  the  full-grown  man  to  look  too  closely  at  these 


56     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

old  acquaintances,  but  rather  to  reverence  them  at  a  dis- 
tance, through  the  medium  of  years  that  have  gathered 
duskily  between.  There  was  something  laughably  un- 
true in  their  pompous  stride  and  exaggerated  sentiment ; 
they  were  neither  human,  nor  tolerable  likenesses  of 
humanity,  but  fantastic  masquers,  rendering  heroism 
and  nature  alike  ridiculous  by  the  grave  absurdity  of 
their  pretensions  to  such  attributes.  And  as  for  the 
peerless  dream-lady,  behold !  there  advanced  up  the 
saloon,  with  a  movement  like  a  jointed  doll,  a  sort  of 
wax  figure  of  an  angel  —  a  creature  as  cold  as  moon- 
shine—  an  artifice  in  petticoats,  with  an  intellect  of 
petty  phrases,  and  only  the  semblance  of  a  heart  —  yet, 
in  all  these  particulars,  the  true  type  of  a  young  man's 
imaginary  mistress.  Hardly  could  the  host's  punctilious 
courtesy  restrain  a  smile,  as  he  paid  his  respects  to  this 
unreality,  and  met  the  sentimental  glance  with  which 
the  Dream  sought  to  remind  him  of  their  former  love- 
passages. 

"No,  no,  fair  lady,"  murmured  he,  betwixt  sighing 
and  smiling ;  "  my  taste  is  changed !  I  have  learned 
to  love  what  Nature  makes,  better  than  my  own  crea- 
tions in  the  guise  of  womanhood." 

"  Ah,  false  one !  "  shrieked  the  dream-lady,  pretend- 
ing to  faint,  but  dissolving  into  thin  air,  out  of  which 
came  the  deplorable  murmur  of  her  voice  —  "  your  in- 
constancy has  annihilated  me !  " 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  cruel  Man  of  Fancy  to  himself, 
—  "  and  a  good  riddance,  too !  " 

Together  with  these  shadows,  and  from  the  same 
region,  there  had  come  an  uninvited  multitude  of  shapes, 
which,  at  any  time  during  his  life,  had  tormented  the 
Man  of  Fancy  in  his  moods  of  morbid  melancholy,  or 
had  haunted  him  in  the  delirium  of  fever.  The  walls 
of  his  castle  in  the  air  were  not  dense  enough  to  keep 
them  out ;  nor  would  the  strongest  of  earthly  architec- 
ture have  availed  to  their  exclusion.  Here  were  those 
forms  of  dim  terror,  which  had  beset  him  at  the  entrance 
of  life,  waging  warfare  with  his  hopes.  Here  were 
strange  uglinesses  of  earlier  date,  such  as  haunt  chil- 


A   SELECT    PARTY  57 

dren  in  the  night-time.  He  was  particularly  startled  by 
the  vision  of  a  deformed  old  black  woman,  whom  he 
imagined  as  lurking  in  the  garret  of  his  native  home, 
and  who,  when  he  was  an  infant,  had  once  come  to  his 
bedside  and  grinned  at  him,  in  the  crisis  of  a  scarlet 
fever.  This  same  black  shadow,  with  others  almost  as 
hideous,  now  glided  among  the  pillars  of  the  magnificent 
saloon,  grinning  recognition,  until  the  man  shuddered 
anew  at  the  forgotten  terrors  of  his  childhood.  It 
amused  him,  however,  to  observe  the  black  woman, 
with  the  mischievous  caprice  peculiar  to  such  beings, 
steal  up  to  the  chair  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  and  peep 
into  his  half-dreamy  mind. 

"  Never  within  my  memory,"  muttered  that  venerable 
personage,  aghast,  "  did  I  see  such  a  face !  " 

Almost  immediately  after  the  unrealities  just  described, 
arrived  a  number  of  guests,  whom  incredulous  readers 
may  be  inclined  to  rank  equally  among  creatures  of 
imagination.  The  most  noteworthy  were  an  incorrup- 
tible Patriot ;  a  Scholar  without  pedantry  ;  a  Priest  with- 
out worldly  ambition,  and  a  Beautiful  Woman  without 
pride  or  coquetry ;  a  Married  Pair  whose  life  had  never 
been  disturbed  by  incongruity  of  feeling ;  a  Reformer 
untrammelled  by  his  theory;  and  a  Poet  who  felt  no 
jealousy  towards  other  votaries  of  the  lyre.  In  truth, 
however,  the  host  was  not  one  of  the  cynics  who  con- 
sider these  patterns  of  excellence,  without  the  fatal  flaw, 
such  rarities  in  the  world ;  and  he  had  invited  them  to 
his  select  party  chiefly  out  of  humble  deference  to  the 
judgment  of  society,  which  pronounces  them  almost 
impossible  to  be  met  with. 

"  In  my  younger  days,"  observed  the  Oldest  Inhab- 
itant, "  such  characters  might  be  seen  at  the  corner  of 
every  street." 

Be  that  as  it  might,  these  specimens  of  perfection 
proved  to  be  not  half  so  entertaining  companions  as 
people  with  the  ordinary  allowance  of  faults. 

But  now  appeared  a  stranger,  whom  the  host  had 
no  sooner  recognized,  than,  with  an  abundance  of  cour- 
tesy unlavished  on  any  other,  he  hastened  down  the 


58     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

whole  length  of  the  saloon,  in  order  to  pay  him  emphatic 
honor.  Yet  he  was  a  young  man  in  poor  attire,  with  no 
insignia  of  rank  or  acknowledged  eminence,  nor  any- 
thing to  distinguish  him  among  the  crowd  except  a  high, 
white  forehead,  beneath  which  a  pair  of  deep-set  eyes 
were  glowing  with  warm  light.  It  was  such  a  light  as 
never  illuminates  the  earth,  save  when  a  great  heart 
burns  as  the  household  fire  of  a  grand  intellect.  And 
who  was  he  ?  Who  but  the  Ma_ster...  Genius,  for  whom 
our  country  is  looking  anxiously  into  the  mist  of  time,  as 
destined  to  fulfil  the  great  mission  of  creating  an  Ameri- 
can literature,  hewing  it,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  unwrought 
granite  of  our  intellectual  quarries.  From  him,  whether 
moulded  in  the  form  of  an  epic  poem,  or  assuming  a 
guise  altogether  new,  as  the  spirit  itself  may  determine, 
we  are  to  receive  our  first  great  original  work,  which 
shall  do  all  that  remains  to  be  achieved  for  our  glory 
among  the  nations.  How  this  child  of  a  mighty  destiny 
had  been  discovered  by  the  Man  of  Fancy,  it  is  of  little 
consequence  to  mention.  Suffice  it,  that  he  dwells  as 
yet  unhonored  among  men,  unrecognized  by  those  who 
have  known  him  from  his  cradle ;  —  the  noble  counte- 
nance which  should  be  distinguished  by  a  halo  diffused 
around  it,  passes  daily  amid  the  throng  of  people,  toiling 
and  troubling  themselves  about  trifles  of  a  moment  — 
and  none  pay  reverence  to  the  worker  of  immortality. 
Nor  does  it  matter  much  to  him,  in  his  triumph  over  all 
the  ages,  though  a  generation  or  two  of  his  own  times 
shall  do  themselves  the  wrong  to  disregard  him. 

By  this  time,  Monsieur  On-Dit  had  caught  up  the 
stranger's  name  and  destiny,  and  was  busily  whispering 
the  intelligence  among  the  other  guests. 

"  Pshaw !  "  said  one,  "  there  can  never  be  an  American 
GenjjisJ' 

"Pish!"  cried  another,  "we  have  already  as  good 
poets  as  any  in  the  world.  For  my  part,  I  desire  to  see 
no  better." 

And  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  when  it  was  proposed  to 
introduce  him  to  the  Master  Genius,  begged  to  be  ex- 
cused, observing  that  a  man  who  had  been  honored  with 


A   SELECT   PARTY  59 

the  acquaintance  of  Dwight,  Freneau,  and  Joel  Barlow, 
might  be  allowed  a  little  austerity  of  taste. 

The  saloon  was  now  fast  filling  up,  by  the  arrival  of 
other  remarkable  characters ;  among  whom  were  noticed 
Davy  Jones,  the  distinguished  nautical  personage,  and  a 
rude,  carelessly  dressed,  harum-scarum  sort  of  elderly 
fellow,  known  by  the  nickname  of  Old  Harry.  The 
latter,  however,  after  being  shown  to  a  dressing-room, 
reappeared  with  his  gray  hair  nicely  combed,  his  clothes 
brushed,  a  clean  dicky  on  his  neck,  and  altogether  so 
changed  in  aspect  as  to  merit  the  more  respectful  appel- 
lation of  Venerable  Henry.  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roe 
came  arm-in-arm,  accompanied  by  a  Man  of  Straw,  a 
fictitious  indorser,  and  several  persons  who  had  no  ex- 
istence except  as  voters  in  closely  contested  elections. 
The  celebrated  Seatsfield,  who  now  entered,  was  at  first 
supposed  to  belong  to  the  same  brotherhood,  until  he 
made  it  apparent  that  he  was  a  real  man  of  flesh  and 
blood,  and  had  his  earthly  domicile  in  Germany.  Among 
the  latest  comers,  as  might  reasonably  be  expected,  ar- 
rived a  guest  from  the  far  future. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  —  do  you  know  him  ?  "  whispered 
Monsieur  On-Dit,  who  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with 
everybody.  "  He  is  the  representative  of  Posterity- — 
the  man  of  an  age' to  come !  "" 

"And  how  came  he  here?"  asked  a  figure  who  was 
evidently  the  prototype  of  the  fashion-plate  in  a  maga- 
zine, and  might  be  taken  to  represent  the  vanities  of  the 
passing  moment.  "  The  fellow  infringes  upon  our  rights 
by  coming  before  his  time." 

"  But  you  forget  where  we  are,"  answered  the  Man 
of  Fancy,  who  overheard  the  remark ;  "  the  lower  earth, 
it  is  true,  will  be  forbidden  ground  to  him  for  many  long 
years  hence  ;  but  a  castle  in  the  air  is  a  sort  of  no-man's 
land,  where  Posterity  may  make  acquaintance  with  us 
on  equal  terms." 

No  sooner  was  his  identity  known,  than  a  throng  of 
guests  gathered  about  Posterity,  all  expressing  the  most 
generous  interest  in  his  welfare,  and  many  boasting  of 
the  sacrifices  which  they  had  made,  or  were  willing  to 


60     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

make,  in  his  behalf.  Some,  with  as  much  secrecy  as 
possible,  desired  his  judgment  upon  certain  copies  of 
verses,  or  great  manuscript  rolls  of  prose ;  others 
accosted  him  with  the  familiarity  of  old  friends,  taking 
it  for  granted  that  he  was  perfectly  cognizant  of  their 
names  and  characters.  At  length,  finding  himself  thus 
beset,  Posterity  was  put  quite  beside  his  patience. 

"Gentlemen,  my  good  friends,"  cried  he,  breaking 
loose  from  a  misty  poet,  who  strove  to  hold  him  by  the 
button,  "  I  pray  you  to  attend  to  your  own  business,  and 
leave  me  to  take  care  of  mine !  I  expect  to  owe  you 
nothing,  unless  it  be  certain  national  debts,  and  other 
incumbrances  and  impediments,  physical  and  moral, 
which  I  shall  find  it  troublesome  enough  to  remove  from 
my  path.  As  to  your  verses,  pray  read  them  to  your 
contemporaries.  Your  names  are  as  strange  to  me  as 
your  faces ;  and  even  were  it  otherwise  —  let  me  whisper 
you  a  secret  —  the  cold,  icy  memory  which  one  genera- 
tion may  retain  of  another  is  but  a  poor  recompense  to 
barter  life  for.  Yet,  if  your  heart  is  set  on  being  known 
to  me,  the  surest,  the  only  method  is,  to  live  truly  and 
wisely  for  your  own  age,  whereby,  if  the  native  force  be 
in  you,  you  may  likewise  live  for  posterity  ! " 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  murmured  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  who, 
as  a  man  of  the  past,  felt  jealous  that  all  notice  should 
be  withdrawn  from  himself,  to  be  lavished  on  the  future, 
—  "  sheer  nonsense,  to  waste  so  much  thought  on  what 
only  is  to  be !  " 

To  divert  the  minds  of  his  guests,  who  were  consid- 
erably abashed  by  this  little  incident,  the  Man  of  Fancy 
led  them  through  several  apartments  of  the  castle,  re- 
ceiving their  compliments  upon  the  taste  and  varied 
magnificence  that  were  displayed  in  each./  One  of 
these  rooms  was  filled  with  moonlight,  which  did  not 
-,  enter  through  the  window,  but  was  the  aggregate  of  all 
A/  the  moonshine  that  is  scattered  around  the  earth  on  a 
r\  summer  night,  while  no  eyes  are  awake  to  enjoy  its 

beauty v/  Airy  spirits  had  gathered  it  up,  wherever  they 
found  it  gleaming  on  the  broad  bosom  of  a  lake,  or 
silvering  the  meanders  of  a  stream,  or  glimmering 


A   SELECT   PARTY  61 

among  the  wind-stirred  boughs  of  a  wood,  and  had 
garnered  it  in  one  spacious  hall.  Along  the  walls,  illu- 
minated by  the  mild  intensity  of  the  moonshine,  stood 
a  multitude  of  ideal  statues,  the  original  conceptions 
of  the  great  works  of  ancient  or  modern  art,  which  the 
sculptors  did  but  imperfectly  succeed  in  putting  into 
marble.  For  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  pure  idea 
of  an  immortal  creation  ceases  to  exist ;  it  is  only  neces- 
sary to  know  where  they  are  deposited,  in  order  to 
obtain  possession  of  them.  In  the  alcoves  of  another 
vast  apartment  was  arranged  a  splendid  library,  the 
volumes  of  which  were  inestimable,  because  they  con- 
sisted not  of  actual  performances,  but  of  the  works 
which  the  authors  only  planned,  without  ever  finding 
the  happy  season  to  achieve  them.  To  take  familiar 
instances,  here  were  the  untold  tales  of  Chaucer's  Can- 
terbury Pilgrims;  the  unwritten  cantos  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  ;  the  conclusion  of  Coleridge's  Christabel ;  and 
the  whole  of  Dryden's  projected  Epic  on  the  subject  of 
King  Arthur.  The  shelves  were  crowded ;  for  it  would 
not  be  too  much  to  affirm  that  every  author  has  imag- 
ined, and  shaped  out  in  his  thought,  more  and  far  better 
works  than  those  which  actually  proceeded  from  his 
pen.  And  here,  likewise,  were  the  unrealized  concep- 
tions of  youthful  poets,  who  died  of  the  very  strength 
of  their  own  genius,  before  the  world  had  caught  one 
inspired  murmur  from  their  lips. 

When  the  peculiarities  of  the  library  and  statue  gal- 
lery were  explained  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant,  he  ap- 
peared infinitely  perplexed,  and  exclaimed,  with  more 
energy  than  usual,  that  he  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing  within  his  memory,  and,  moreover,  did  not  at  all 
understand  how  it  could  be. 

"  But  my  brain,  I  think,"  said  the  good  old  gentle- 
man, "  is  getting  not  so  clear  as  it  used  to  be.  You 
young  folks,  I  suppose,  can  see  your  way  through  these 
strange  matters.  For  my  part  I  give  it  up." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  muttered  the  Old  Harry.  "  It  is 
enough  to  puzzle  the ahem  !  " 

Making  as  little  reply  as  possible  to  these  observa- 


62     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

tions,  the  Man  of  Fancy  preceded  the  company  to 
another  noble  saloon,  the  pillars  of  which  were  solid 
golden  sunbeams,  taken  out  of  the  sky  in  the  first  hour 
in  the  morning.  Thus,  as  they  retained  all  their  living 
lustre,  the  room  was  filled  with  the  most  cheerful  radi- 
ance imaginable,  yet  not  too  dazzling  to  be  borne  with 
comfort  and  delight.  The  windows  were  beautifully 
adorned  with  curtains,  made  of  the  many-colored  clouds 
of  sunrise,  all  imbued  with  virgin  light,  and  hanging  in 
magnificent  festoons  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 
Moreover,  there  were  fragments  of  rainbows  scattered 
through  the  room ;  so  that  the  guests,  astonished  at  one 
another,  reciprocally  saw  their  heads  made  glorious  by 
the  seven  primary  hues ;  or,  if  they  chose  —  as  who 
would  not  ?  —  they  could  grasp  a  rainbow  in  the  air, 
and  convert  it  to  their  own  apparel  and  adornment. 
But  the  morning  light  and  scattered  rainbows  were  only 
a  type  and  symbol  of  the  real  wonders  of  the  apartment. 
By  an  influence  akin  to  magic,  yet  perfectly  natural, 
whatever  means  and  opportunities  of  joy  are  neglected 
in  the  lower  world,  had  been  carefully  gathered  up,  and 
deposited  in  the  saloon  of  morning  sunshine.  As  may 
well  be  conceived,  therefore,  there  was  material  enough 
to  supply  not  merely  a  joyous  evening,  but  also  a  happy 
lifetime,  to  more  than  as  many  people  as  that  spacious 
apartment  could  contain.  The  company  seemed  to 
renew  their  youth ;  while  that  pattern  and  proverbial 
standard  of  innocence,  the  Child  Unborn,  frolicked  to 
and  fro  among  them,  communicating  his  own  un- 
wrinkled  gayety  to  all  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  wit- 
ness his  gambols. 

"  My  honored  friends,"  said  the  Man  of  Fancy,  after 
they  had  enjoyed  themselves  awhile,  "  I  am  now  to 
request  your  presence  in  the  banqueting-hall,  where  a 
slight  collation  is  awaiting  you." 

"Ah,  well  said  !  "  ejaculated  a  cadaverous  figure,  who 
had  been  invited  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was 
pretty  constantly  in  the  habit  of  dining  with  Duke  Hum- 
phrey. "  I  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  a  castle  in 
the  air  were  provided  with  a  kitchen." 


A   SELECT   PARTY  63 

r  It  was  curious,  in  truth,  to  see  how  instantaneously 
the  guests  were  diverted  from  the  high  moral  enjoy- 
ments  which  they  had  been  tasting  with  so  much  appar- 
ent zest,  by  a  suggestion  of  the  more  >  solid  as  well  as 
liquid  delights  of  the  festive  board/  They  thronged 
eagerly  in  the  rear  of  the  host,  who  /now  ushered  them 
into  a  lofty  and  extensive  hall,  from  end  to  end  of 
which  was  arranged  a  table,  glittering  all  over  with 
innumerable  dishes  and  drinking-vessels  of  gold.  It  is 
an  uncertain  point,  whether  these  rich  articles  of  plate 
were  made  for  the  occasion,  out  of  molten  sunbeams,  or 
recovered  from  the  wrecks  of  Spanish  galleons,  that 
had  lain  for  ages  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The  upper 
end  of  the  table  was  overshadowed  by  a  canopy,  be- 
neath which  was  placed  a  chair  of  elaborate  magnifi- 
cence, which  the  host  himself  declined  to  occupy,  and 
besought  his  guests  to  assign  it  to  the  worthiest  among 
them.  As  a  suitable  homage  to  his  incalculable  antiquity 
and  eminent  distinction,  the  post  of  honor  was  at  first 
tendered  to  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  He,  however,  es- 
chewed it,  and  requested  the  favor  of  a  bowl  of  gruel  at 
a  side  table,  where  he  could  refresh  himself  with  a  quiet 
nap.  There  was  some  little  hesitation  as  to  the  next 
candidate,  until  Posterity  took  the  Master  Genius  of  our 
country  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  chair  of  state, 
beneath  the  princely  canopy.  When  once  they  beheld 
him  in  his  true  place,  the  company  acknowledged  the 
justice  of  the  selection  by  a  long  thunder-roll  of  vehe- 
ment applause. 

Then  was  served  up  a  banquet,  combining,  if  not  all 
the  delicacies  of  the  season,  yet  all  the  rarities  which 
careful  purveyors  had  met  with  in  the  flesh,  fish,  and 
vegetable  markets  of  the  land  of  Nowhere.  The  bill  of 
fare  being  unfortunately  lost,  we  can  only  mention  a 
Phoenix,  roasted  in  its  own  flames,  cold  potted  birds  of 
Paradise,  ice-creams  from  the  Milky  Way,  and  whip- 
syllabubs  and  flummery  from  the  Paradise  of  Fools, 
whereof  there  was  a  very  great  consumption.  As  for 
drinkables,  the  temperance  people  contented  themselves 
with  water,  as  usual,  but  it  was  the  water  of  the  Foun- 


64     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

tain  of  Youth ;  the  ladies  sipped  Nepenthe ;  the  love- 
lorn, the  care-worn,  and  the  sorrow-stricken  were 
supplied  with  brimming  goblets  of  Lethe ;  and  it  was 
shrewdly  conjectured  that  a  certain  golden  vase,  from 
which  only  the  more  distinguished  guests  were  invited 
to  partake,  contained  nectar  that  had  been  mellowing 
ever  since  the  days  of  classical  mythology.  The  cloth 
being  removed,  the  company,  as  usual,  grew  eloquent 
over  their  liquor,  and  delivered  themselves  of  a  succes- 
sion of  brilliant  speeches ;  the  task  of  reporting  which 
we  resign  to  the  more  adequate  ability  of  Counsellor 
Gill,  whose  indispensable  co-operation  the  Man  of  Fancy 
had  taken  the  precaution  to  secure. 

When  the  festivity  of  the  banquet  was  at  its  most 
ethereal  point,  the  Clerk  of  the  Weather  was  observed 
to  steal  from  the  table,  and  thrust  his  head  between  the 
purple  and  golden  curtains  of  one  of  the  windows. 

"  My  fellow-guests,"  he  remarked  aloud,  after  care- 
fully noting  the  signs  of  the  night,  "  I  advise  such  of 
you  as  live  at  a  distance  to  be  going  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, for  a  thunder-storm  is  certainly  at  hand." 

"  Mercy  on  me !  "  cried  Mother  Carey,  who  had  left 
her  brood  of  chickens,  and  come  hither  in  gossamer 
drapery,  with  pink  silk  stockings,  "  how  shall  I  ever  get 
home  ?" 

All  now  was  confusion  and  hasty  departure,  with  but 
little  superfluous  leave-taking.  The  Oldest  Inhabitant, 
however,  true  to  the  rule  of  those  long-past  days  in 
which  his  courtesy  had  been  studied,  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  the  meteor-lighted  hall,  to  express  his  vast 
satisfaction  at  the  entertainment. 

"  Never,  within  my  memory,"  observed  the  gracious 
old  gentleman,  "  has  it  been  my  good  fortune  to  spend  a 
pleasanter  evening,  or  in  more  select  society." 

The  wind  here  took  his  breath  away,  whirled  his  three- 
cornered  hat  into  infinite  space,  and  drowned  what  fur- 
ther compliments  it  had  been  his  purpose  to  bestow. 
Many  of  the  company  had  bespoken  Will-o'-the-Wisps 
to  convoy  them  home ;  and  the  host,  in  his  general 
beneficence,  had  engaged  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  with  an 


A   SELECT   PARTY  65 

immense  horn  lantern,  to  be  the  guide  of  such  desolate 
spinsters  as  could  do  no  better  for  themselves.  But  a 
blast  of  the  rising  tempest  blew  out  all  their  lights  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  How,  in  the  darkness  that 
ensued,  the  guests  contrived  to  get  back  to  earth,  or 
whether  the  greater  part  of  them  contrived  to  get  back 
at  all,  or  are  still  wandering  among  clouds,  mists,  and 
puffs  of  tempestuous  wind,  bruised  by  the  beams  and 
rafters  of  the  overthrown  castle  in  the  air,  and  deluded 
by  all  sorts  of  unrealities,  are  points  that  concern  them- 
selves, much  more  than  the  writer  or  the  public.  People 
should  think  of  these  matters,  before  they  trust  them-  t 
selves  on  a  pleasure-party  into  the  realm  of  Nowhere. 


\\ 


YOUNG   GOODMAN   BROWN 

WOUNG  GOODMAN  BROWN  came  forth  at  sunset, 
X  into  the  street  of  Salem  village,  but  put  his  head 
back,  after  crossing  the  threshold,  to  exchange  a  parting 
kiss  with  his  young  wife.  And  Faith,  as  the  wife  was 
aptly  named,  thrust  her  own  pretty  head  into  the  street, 
letting  the  wind  play  with  the  pink  ribbons  of  her  cap, 
while  she  called  to  Goodman  Brown. 

"  Dearest  heart,"  whispered  she,  softly  and  rather 
sadly,  when  her  lips  were  close  to  his  ear,  "prithee,  put 
off  your  journey  until  sunrise,  and  sleep  in  your  own 
bed  to-night.  A  lone  woman  is  troubled  with  such 
dreams  and  such  thoughts,  that  she 's  afeard  of  herself, 
sometimes.  Pray,  tarry  with  me  this  night,  dear  hus- 
band, of  all  nights  in  the  year !  " 

"  My  love  and  my  Faith,"  replied  young  Goodman 
Brown,  "of  all  nights  in  the  year,  this  one  night  must  I 
tarry  away  from  thee.  My  journey,  as  thou  callest  it, 
forth  and  back  again,  must  needs  be  done  'twixt  now 
and  sunrise.  What,  my  sweet,  pretty  wife,  dost  thou 
doubt  me  already,  and  we  but  three  months  married  !  " 

"Then  God  bless  you!"  said  Faith  with  the  pink 
ribbons,  "  and  may  you  find  all  well,  when  you  come 
back." 

"  Amen !  "  cried  Goodman  Brown.  "  Say  thy  prayers, 
dear  Faith,  and  go  to  bed  at  dusk,  and  no  harm  will 
come  to  thee." 

So  they  parted ;  and  the  young  man  pursued  his  way, 
until,  being  about  to  turn  the  corner  by  the  meeting- 
house, he  looked  back  and  saw  the  head  of  Faith  still 
peeping  after  him,  with  a  melancholy  air,  in  spite  of  her 
pink  ribbons. 

"  Poor  little  Faith  !  "  thought  he,  for  his  heart  smote 
him.  "  What  a  wretch  am  I,  to  leave  her  on  such  an 
errand !  She  talks  of  dreams,  too.  Methought,  as  she 
66 


YOUNG    GOODMAN    BROWN         67 

spoke,  there  was  trouble  in  her  face,  as  if  a  dream  had 
warned  her  what  work  is  to  be  done  to-night.  But  no, 
no  !  't  would  kill  her  to  think  it.  Well;  she 's  a  blessed 
angel  on  earth ;  and  after  this  one  night,  I  '11  cling  to 
her  skirts  and  follow  her  to  Heaven." 

With  this  excellent  resolve  for  the  future,  Goodman 
Brown  felt  himself  justified  in  making  more  haste  on  his 
present  evil  purpose.  He  had  taken  a  dreary  road, 
darkened  by  all  the  gloomiest  trees  of  the  forest,  which 
barely  stood  aside  to  let  the  narrow  path  creep  through, 
and  closed  immediately  behind.  It  was  all  as  lonely  as 
could  be, ;  and  there  is  this  peculiarity  in  such  a  solitude, 
that  the  traveller  knows  not  who  may  be  concealed  by 
the  innumerable  trunks  and  the  thick  boughs  overhead ; 
so  that,  with  lonely  footsteps,  he  may  yet  be  passing 
through  an  unseen  multitude. 

"  There  may  be  a  devilish  Indian  behind  every  tree," 
said  Goodman  Brown  to  himself ;  and  he  glanced  fear- 
fully behind  him,  as  he  added,  "  What  if  the  devil  him- 
self should  be  at  my  very  elbow !  " 

His  head  being  turned  back,  he  passed  a  crook  of  the 
road,  and  looking  forward  again,  beheld  the  figure  of  a 
man,  in  grave  and  decent  attire,  seated  at  the  foot  of  an 
old  tree.  He  arose  at  Goodman  Brown's  approach,  and 
walked  onward,  side  by  side  with  him. 

"You  are  late,  Goodman  Brown,"  said  he.  "The 
clock  of  the  Old  South  was  striking,  as  I  came  through 
Boston ;  and  that  is  full  fifteen  minutes  agone." 

"  Faith  kept  me  back  awhile,"  replied  the  young 
man,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  caused  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  his  companion,  though  not  wholly  unex- 
pected. 

It  was  now  deep  dusk  in  the  forest,  and  deepest  in 
that  part  of  it  where  these  two  were  journeying.  As 
nearly  as  could  be  discerned,  the  second  traveller  was 
about  fifty  years  old,  apparently  in  the  same  rank  of 
life  as  Goodman  Brown,  and  bearing  a  considerable 
resemblance  to  him,  though  perhaps  more  in  expression 
than  features.  Still,  they  might  have  been  taken  for 
father  and  son.  And  yet,  though  the  elder  person  was 


68     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

as  simply  clad  as  the  younger,  and  as  simple  in  manner 
too,  he  had  an  indescribable  air  of  one  who  knew  the 
world,  and  would  not  have  felt  abashed  at  the  govern- 
or's dinner-table,  or  in  King  William's  court,  were  it 
possible  that  his  affairs  should  call  him  thither.  But 
the  only  thing  about  him  that  could  be  fixed  upon  as 
remarkable,  was  his  staff,  which  bore  the  likeness  of  a 
great  black  snake,  so  curiously  wrought,  that  it  might 
almost  be  seen  to  twist  and  wriggle  itself  like  a  living 
serpent.  This,  of  course,  must  have  been  an  ocular 
deception,  assisted  by  the  uncertain  light. 

"  Come,  Goodman  Brown  !  "  cried  his  fellow-traveller, 
"this  is  a  dull  pace  for  the  beginning  of  a  journey. 
Take  my  staff,  if  you  are  so  soon  weary." 

"Friend,"  said  the  other,  exchanging  his  slow  pace 
for  a  full  stop,  "  having  kept  covenant  by  meeting  thee 
here,  it  is  my  purpose  now  to  return  whence  I  came.  I 
have  scruples,  touching  the  matter  thou  wot'st  of." 

"  Sayest  thou  so  ?  "  replied  he  of  the  serpent,  smiling 
apart.  "  Let  us  walk  on,  nevertheless,  reasoning  as  we 
go,  and  if  I  convince  thee  not,  thou  shalt  turn  back. 
We  are  but  a  little  way  in  the  forest,  yet." 

"  Too  far,  too  far !  "  exclaimed  the  goodman,  uncon- 
sciously resuming  his  walk.  "  My  father  never  went 
into  the  woods  on  such  an  errand,  nor  his  father  before 
him.  We  have  been  a  race  of  honest  men  and  good 
Christians,  since  the  days  of  the  martyrs.  And  shall  I 
be  the  first  of  the  name  of  Brown  that  ever  took  this 
path  and  kept  —  " 

"Such  company,  thou  wouldst  say,"  observed  the 
elder  person,  interrupting  his  pause.  "  Well  said,  Good- 
man Brown !  I  have  been  as  well  acquainted  with  your 
family  as  with  ever  a  one  among  the  Puritans ;  and 
that 's  no  trifle  to  say.  I  helped  your  grandfather,  the 
constable,  when  he  lashed  the  Quaker  woman  so  smartly 
through  the  streets  of  Salem.  And  it  was  I  that  brought 
your  father  a  pitch-pine  knot,  kindled  at  my  own  hearth, 
to  set  fire  to  an  Indian  village,  in  King  Philip's  war. 
They  were  my  good  friends,  both ;  and  many  a  pleas- 
ant walk  have  we  had  along  this  path,  and  returned 


YOUNG   GOODMAN    BROWN         69 

merrily  after  midnight.  I  would  fain  be  friends  with 
you,  for  their  sake." 

"  If  it  be  as  thou  sayest,"  replied  Goodman  Brown, 
"  I  marvel  they  never  spoke  of  these  matters.  Or, 
verily,  I  marvel  not,  seeing  that  the  least  rumor  of  the 
sort  would  have  driven  them  from  New  England.  We 
are  a  people  of  prayer,  and  good  works  to  boot,  and 
abide  no  such  wickedness." 

"Wickedness  or  not,"  said  the  traveller  with  the 
twisted  staff,  "  I  have  a  very  general  acquaintance  here 
in  New  England.  The  deacons  of  many  a  church  have 
drunk  the  communion  wine  with  me ;  the  selectmen,  of 
divers  towns,  make  me  their  chairman ;  and  a  majority 
of  the  Great  and  General  Court  are  firm  supporters  of 
my  interest.  The  governor  and  I,  too  —  but  these  are 
state  secrets." 

"  Can  this  be  so ! "  cried  Goodman  Brown,  with  a 
stare  of  amazement  at  his  undisturbed  companion. 
"  Howbeit,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  governor  and 
council ;  they  have  their  own  ways,  and  are  no  rule  for 
a  simple  husbandman  like  me.  But,  were  I  to  go  on 
with  thee,  how  should  I  meet  the  eye  of  that  good  old 
man,  our  minister,  at  Salem  village  ?  Oh,  his  voice 
would  make  me  tremble,  both  Sabbath-day  and  lecture- 
day  !  " 

Thus  far,  the  elder  traveller  had  listened  with  due 
gravity,  but  now  burst  into  a  fit  of  irrepressible  mirth, 
shaking  himself  so  violently,  that  his  snakelike  staff 
actually  seemed  to  wriggle  in  sympathy. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  shouted  he,  again  and  again;  then 
composing  himself,  "Well,  go  on,  Goodman  Brown,  go 
on  ;  but,  prithee,  don't  kill  me  with  laughing  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  to  end  the  matter  at  once,"  said  Good- 
man Brown,  considerably  nettled,  "there  is  my  wife, 
Faith.  It  would  break  her  dear  little  heart ;  and  I  'd 
rather  break  my  own  !  " 

"  Nay,  if  that  be  the  case,"  answered  the  other,  "e'en 
go  thy  ways,  Goodman  Brown.  I  would  not,  for  twenty 
old  women  like  the  one  hobbling  before  us,  that  Faith 
should  come  to  any  harm." 


7o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  his  staff  at  a  female  figure 
on  the  path,  in  whom  Goodman  Brown  recognized  a 
very  pious  and  exemplary  dame,  who  had  taught  him 
his  catechism  in  youth,  and  was  still  his  moral  and 
spiritual  adviser,  jointly  with  the  minister  and  Deacon 
Gookin. 

"  A  marvel,  truly,  that  Goody  Cloyse  should  be  so  far 
in  the  wilderness,  at  nightfall !  "  said  he.  "  But,  with 
your  leave,  friend,  I  shall  take  a  cut  through  the  woods, 
until  we  have  left  this  Christian  woman  behind.  Being 
a  stranger  to  you,  she  might  ask  whom  I  was  consorting 
with,  and  whither  I  was  going." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  his  fellow-traveller.  "  Betake  you  to 
the  woods,  and  let  me  keep  the  path." 

Accordingly,  the  young  man  turned  aside,  but  took 
care  to  watch  his  companion,  who  advanced  softly  along 
the  road,  until  he  had  come  within  a  staff's  length  of 
the  old  dame.  She,  meanwhile,  was  making  the  best  of 
her  way,  with  singular  speed  for  so  aged  a  woman,  and 
mumbling  some  indistinct  words,  a  prayer,  doubtless,  as 
she  went.  The  traveller  put  forth  his  staff,  and  touched 
her  withered  neck  with  what  seemed  the  serpent's  tail. 

"The  devil!"  screamed  the  pious  old  lady. 

"Then  Goody  Cloyse  knows  her  old  friend?"  ob- 
served the  traveller,  confronting  her,  and  leaning  on 
his  writhing  stick. 

"  Ah,  forsooth,  and  is  it  your  worship,  indeed  ?  "  cried 
the  good  dame.  "Yea,  truly  is  it,  and  in  the  very  image 
of  my  old  gossip,  Goodman  Brown,  the  grandfather  of 
the  silly  fellow  that  now  is.  But,  would  your  worship 
believe  it  ?  my  broomstick  hath  strangely  disappeared, 
stolen,  as  I  suspect,  by  that  unhanged  witch,  Goody  Cory, 
and  that,  too,  when  I  was  all  anointed  with  the  juice  of 
smallage  and  cinque-foil  and  wolf's-bane  — 

"  Mingled  with  fine  wheat  and  the  fat  of  a  new-born 
babe,"  said  the  shape  of  old  Goodman  Brown. 

"  Ah,  your  worship  knows  the  recipe,"  cried  the  old 
lady,  cackling  aloud.  "  So,  as  I  was  saying,  being  all 
ready  for  the  meeting,  and  no  horse  to  ride  on,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  foot  it ;  for  they  tell  me  there  is  a  nice 


YOUNG    GOODMAN    BROWN         71 

young  man  to  be  taken  into  communion  to-night.  But 
now  your  good  worship  will  lend  me  your  arm,  and  we 
shall  be  there  in  a  twinkling." 

"That  can  hardly  be,"  answered  her  friend.  "  I  may 
not  spare  you  my  arm,  Goody  Cloyse,  but  here  is  my 
staff,  if  you  will." 

So  saying,  he  threw  it  down  at  her  feet,  where,  per- 
haps, it  assumed  life,  being  one  of  the  rods  which  its 
owner  had  formerly  lent  to  the  Egyptian  Magi.  Of 
this  fact,  however,  Goodman  Brown  could  not  take 
cognizance.  He  had  cast  up  his  eyes  in  astonishment, 
and  looking  down  again,  beheld  neither  Goody  Cloyse 
nor  the  serpentine  staff,  but  his  fellow-traveller  alone, 
who  waited  for  him  as  calmly  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  That  old  woman  taught  me  my  catechism ! "  said 
the  young  man ;  and  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in 
this  simple  comment. 

They  continued  to  walk  onward,  while  the  elder  trav- 
eller exhorted  his  companion  to  make  good  speed  and 
persevere  in  the  path,  discoursing  so  aptly,  that  his 
arguments  seemed  rf  tb.fntr>~£p'r^'1%  'np  ?n  the  bosom  of 
his  audltorpfrlair'to  be  suggested  by  himself.  As  they 
went  he  plucked  a  blanch  of  mupkrrtrrserve  for  a  walk- 
ing-stick, and  began  to  strip  it  of  the  twigs  and  little 
boughs,  which  were  wet  with  evening  dew.  The  moment 
his  fingers  touched  them,  they  became  strangely  with- 
ered and  dried  up,  as  with  a  week's  sunshine.  Thus 
the  pair  proceeded,  at  a  good  free  pace,  until  suddenly, 
in  a  gloomy  hollow  of  the  road,  Goodman  Brown  sat 
himself  down  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,  and  refused  to  go 
any  farther. 

"Friend,"  said  he,  stubbornly,  "my  mind  is  made  up. 
Not  another  step  will  I  budge  on  this  errand.  What 
if  a  wretched  old  woman  do  choose  to  go  to  the  devil, 
when  I  thought  she  was  going  to  Heaven !  Is  that 
any  reason  why  I  should  quit  my  dear  Faith,  and  go 
after  her  ? " 

"  You  will  think  better  of  this  by  and  by,"  said  his 
acquaintance,  composedly.  "  Sit  here  and  rest  yourself 


72     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

awhile ;  and  when  you  feel  like  moving  again,  there  is 
my  staff  to  help  you  along." 

Without  more  words,  he  threw  his  companion  the 
maple  stick,  and  was  as  speedily  out  of  sight  as  if  he 
had  vanished  into  the  deepening  gloom.  The  young 
man  sat  a  few  moments  by  the  roadside,  applauding 
himself  greatly,  and  thinking  with  how  clear  a  con- 
science he  should  meet  the  minister,  in  his  morning 
walk,  nor  shrink  from  the  eye  of  good  old  Deacon 
Gookin.  And  what  calm  sleep  would  be  his,  that  very 
night,  which  was  to  have  been  spent  so  wickedly,  but 
purely  and  sweetly  now,  in  the  arms  of  Faith !  Amidst 
these  pleasant  and  praiseworthy  meditations,  Goodman 
Brown  heard  the  tramp  of  horses  along  the  road,  and 
deemed  it  advisable  to  conceal  himself  within  the  verge 
of  the  forest,  conscious  of  the  guilty  purpose  that 
had  brought  him  thither,  though  now  so  happily  turned 
from  it. 

On  came  the  hoof-tramps  and  the  voices  of  the 
riders,  two  grave  old  voices,  conversing  soberly  as  they 
drew  near.  These  mingled  sounds  appeared  to  pass 
along  the  road,  within  a  few  yards  of  the  young  man's 
hiding-place ;  but  owing,  doubtless,  to  the  depth  of  the 
gloom,  at  that  particular  spot,  neither  the  travellers 
nor  their  steeds  were  visible.  Though  their  figures 
brushed  the  small  boughs  by  the  wayside,  it  could  not 
be  seen  that  they  intercepted,  even  for  a  moment, 
the  faint  gleam  from  the  strip  of  bright  sky,  athwart 
which  they  must  have  passed.  Goodman  Brown  al- 
ternately crouched  and  stood  on  tiptoe,  pulling  aside 
the  branches,  and  thrusting  forth  his  head  as  far  as 
he  durst,  without  discerning  so  much  as  a  shadow. 
It  vexed  him  the  more,  because  he  could  have  sworn, 
were  such  a  thing  possible,  that  he  recognized  the 
voices  of  the  minister  and  Deacon  Gookin,  jogging 
along  quietly,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  when  bound 
to  some  ordination  or  ecclesiastical  council.  While 
yet  within  hearing,  one  of  the  riders  stopped  to  pluck  a 
switch. 

"  Of  the  two,  reverend  Sir,"  said  the  voice  like  the 


YOUNG   GOODMAN    BROWN         73 

deacon's,  "  I  had  rather  miss  an  ordination  dinner  than 
to-night's  meeting.  They  tell  me  that  some  of  our 
community  are  to  be  here  from  Falmouth  and  beyond, 
and  others  from  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island ;  besides 
several  of  the  Indian  powwows,  who,  after  their  fashion, 
know  almost  as  much  deviltry  as  the  best  of  us.  More- 
over, there  is  a  goodly  young  woman  to  be  taken  into 
communion." 

"  Mighty  well,  Deacon  Gookin ! "  replied  the  solemn 
old  tones  of  the  minister.  "Spur  up,  or  we  shall  be 
late.  Nothing  can  be  done,  you  know,  until  I  get  on 
the  ground." 

The  hoofs  clattered  again,  and  the  voices,  talking  so 
strangely  in  the  empty  air,  passed  on  through  the 
forest,  where  no  church  had  ever  been  gathered,  nor 
solitary  Christian  prayed.  Whither,  then,  could  these 
holy  men  be  journeying,  so  deep  into  the  heathen 
wilderness?  Young  Goodman  Brown  caught  hold  of 
a  tree,  for  support,  being  ready  to  sink  down  on  the 
ground,  faint  and  over-burthened  with  the  heavy  sick- 
ness of  his  heart.  He  looked  up  to  the  sky,  doubting 
whether  there  really  was  a  Heaven  above  him.  Yet, 
there  was  the  blue  arch,  and  the  stars  brightening 
in  it. 

"With  Heaven  above,  and  Faith  below,  I  will  yet 
stand  firm  against  the  devil !  "  cried  Goodman  Brown. 

While  he  still  gazed  upward,  into  the  deep  arch  of 
the  firmament,  and  had  lifted  his  hands  to  pray,  a  cloud, 
though  no  wind  was  stirring,  hurried  across  the  zenith, 
and  hid  the  brightening  stars.  The  blue  sky  was  still 
visible,  except  directly  overhead,  where  this  black  mass 
of  cloud  was  sweeping  swiftly  northward.  Aloft  in 
the  air,  as  if  from  the  depths  of  the  cloud,  came  a  con- 
fused and  doubtful  sound  of  voices.  Once,  the  listener 
fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  the  accents  of  town's- 
people  of  his  own,  men  and  women,  both  pious  and 
ungodly,  many  of  whom  he  had  met  at  the  communion- 
table, and  had  seen  others  rioting  at  the  tavern.  The 
next  moment,  so  indistinct  were  the  sounds,  he  doubted 
whether  he  had  heard  aught  but  the  murmur  of  the  old 


74     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

forest,  whispering  without  a  wind.  Then  came  a 
stronger  swell  of  those  familiar  tones,  heard  daily  in  the 
sunshine,  at  Salem  village,  but  never,  until  now,  from  a 
cloud  of  night.  There  was  one  voice,  of  a  young 
woman,  uttering  lamentations,  yet  with  an  uncertain 
sorrow,  and  entreating  for  some  favor,  which,  perhaps, 
it  would  grieve  her  to  obtain.  And  all  the  unseen 
multitude,  both  saints  and  sinners,  seemed  to  encourage 
her  onward. 

"  Faith ! "  shouted  Goodman  Brown,  in  a  voice  of 
agony  and  desperation ;  and  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
mocked  him,  crying  —  "Faith!  Faith!"  as  if  bewil- 
dered wretches  were  seeking  her,  all  through  the  wil- 
derness. 

The  cry  of  grief,  rage,  and  terror  was  yet  piercing 
the  night,  when  the  unhappy  husband  held  his  breath 
for  a  response.  There  was  a  scream,  drowned  immedi- 
ately in  a  louder  murmur  of  voices  fading  into  far-off 
laughter,  as  the  dark  cloud  swept  away,  leaving  the 
clear  and  silent  sky  above  Goodman  Brown.  But  some- 
thing fluttered  lightly  down  through  the  air,  and  caught 
on  the  branch  of  a  tree.  The  young  man  seized  it  and 
beheld  a  pink  ribbon. 

"  My  Faith  is  gone !  "  cried  he,  after  one  stupefied 
moment.  "There  is  no  good  on  earth,  and  sin  is 
but  a  name.  Come,  devil !  for  to  thee  is  this  world 
given." 

And  maddened  with  despair,  so  that  he  laughed  loud 
and  long,  did  Goodman  Brown  grasp  his  staff  and  set 
forth  again,  at  such  a  rate,  that  he  seemed  to  fly  along 
the  forest  path,  rather  than  to  walk  or  run.  The  road 
grew  wilder  and  drearier,  and  more  faintly  traced,  and 
vanished  at  length,  leaving  him  in  the  heart  of  the  dark 
wilderness,  still  rushing  onward,  with  the  instinct  that 
guides  mortal  man  to  evil.  The  whole  forest  was  peopled 
with  frightful  sounds;  the  creaking  of  the  trees,  the 
howling  of  wild  beasts,  and  the  yell  of  Indians ;  while, 
sometimes,  the  wind  tolled  like  a  distant  church  bell, 
and  sometimes  gave  a  broad  roar  around  the  traveller, 
as  if  all  Nature  were  laughing  him  to  scorn.  But  he 


YOUNG   GOODMAN    BROWN         75 

was  himself  the  chief  horror  of  the  scene,  and  shrank 
not  from  its  other  horrors. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  "  roared  Goodman  Brown,  when  the 
wind  laughed  at  him.  "  Let  us  hear  which  will  laugh 
loudest !  Think  not  to  frighten  me  with  your  deviltry  ! 
Come  witch,  come  wizard,  come  Indian  powwow,  come 
devil  himself !  and  here  comes  Goodman  Brown.  You 
may  as  well  fear  him  as  he  fear  you !  " 

In  truth,  all  through  the  haunted  forest,  there  could 
be  nothing  more  frightful  than  the  figure  of  Goodman 
Brown.  On  he  flew,  among  the  black  pines,  brandish- 
ing his  staff  with  frenzied  gestures,  now  giving  vent  to 
an  inspiration  of  horrid  blasphemy,  and  now  shouting 
forth  such  laughter,  as  set  all  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
laughing  like  demons  around  him.  The  fiend  in  his 
own  shape  is  less  hideous,  than  when  he  rages  in  the 
breast  of  man.  Thus  sped  the  demoniac  on  his  course, 
until,  quivering  among  the  trees,  he  saw  a  red  light  be- 
fore him,  as  when  the  felled  trunks  and  branches  of  a 
clearing  have  been  set  on  fire,  and  throw  up  their  lurid 
blaze  against  the  sky,  at  the  hour  of  midnight.  He 
paused,  in  a  lull  of  the  tempest  that  had  driven  him 
onward,  and  heard  the  swell  of  what  seemed  a  hymn, 
rolling  solemnly  from  a  distance,  with  the  weight  of 
many  voices.  He  knew  the  tune.  It  was  a  familiar 
one  in  the  choir  of  the  village  meeting-house.  The  verse 
died  heavily  away,  and  was  lengthened  by  a  chorus,  not 
of  human  voices,  but  of  all  the  sounds  of  the  benighted 
wilderness,  pealing  in  awful  harmony  together.  Good- 
man Brown  cried  out ;  and  his  cry  was  lost  to  his  own 
ear,  by  its  unison  with  the  cry  of  the  desert. 

In  the  interval  of  silence,  he  stole  forward,  until  the 
light  glared  full  upon  his  eyes.  At  one  extremity  of  an 
open  space,  hemmed  in  by  the  dark  wall  of  the  forest, 
arose  a  rock,  bearing  some  rude,  natural  resemblance 
either  to  an  altar  or  a  pulpit,  and  surrounded  by  four 
blazing  pines,  their  tops  aflame,  their  stems  untouched, 
like  candles  at  an  evening  meeting.  The  mass  of  foliage, 
that  had  overgrown  the  summit  of  the  rock,  was  all  on 
fire,  blazing  high  into  the  night,  and  fitfully  illuminating 


76     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  whole  field.  Each  pendent  twig  and  leafy  festoon 
was  in  a  blaze.  As  the  red  light  arose  and  fell,  a  numer- 
ous congregation  alternately  shone  forth,  then  disap- 
peared in  shadow,  and  again  grew,  as  it  were,  out  of  the 
darkness,  peopling  the  heart  of  the  solitary  woods  at  once. 

"A  grave  and  dark-clad  company  !  "  quoth  Goodman 
Brown. 

In  truth,  they  were  such.  Among  them,  quivering 
to-and-fro,  between  gloom  and  splendor,  appeared  faces 
that  would  be  seen,  next  day,  at  the  council-board  of  the 
province,  and  others  which,  Sabbath  after  Sabbath, 
looked  devoutly  heavenward,  and  benignantly  over  the 
crowded  pews,  from  the  holiest  pulpits  in  the  land. 
Some  affirm,  that  the  lady  of  the  governor  was  there. 
At  least,  there  were  high  dames  well  known  to  her,  and 
wives  of  honored  husbands,  and  widows  a  great  multi- 
tude, and  ancient  maidens,  all  of  excellent  repute,  and 
fair  young  girls,  who  trembled  lest  their  mothers  should 
espy  them.  Either  the  sudden  gleams  of  light,  flashing 
over  the  obscure  field,  bedazzled  Goodman  Brown,  or  he 
recognized  a  score  of  the  church  members  of  Salem 
village,  famous  for  their  especial  sanctity.  Good  old 
Deacon  Gookin  had  arrived,  and  waited  at  the  skirts  of 
that  venerable  saint,  his  reverend  pastor.  But,  irrever- 
ently consorting  with  these  grave,  reputable,  and  pious 
people,  these  elders  of  the  church,  these  chaste  dames 
and  dewy  virgins,  there  were  men  of  dissolute  lives  and 
women  of  spotted  fame,  wretches  given  over  to  all  mean 
and  filthy  vice,  and  suspected  even  of  horrid  crimes.  It 
was  strange  to  see,  that  the  good  shrank  not  from  the 
wicked,  nor  were  the  sinners  abashed  by  the  saints. 
Scattered,  also,  among  their  pale-faced  enemies,  were 
the  Indian  priests,  or  powwows,  who  had  often  scared 
their  native  forest  with  more  hideous  incantations  than 
any  known  to  English  witchcraft. 

"  But,  where  is  Faith  ? "  thought  Goodman  Brown  ; 
and,  as  hope  came  into  his  heart,  he  trembled. 

Another  verse  of  the  hymn  arose,  a  slow  and  mourn- 
ful strain,  such  as  the  pious  love,  but  joined  to  words 
which  expressed  all  that  our  nature  can  conceive  of  sin, 


YOUNG    GOODMAN    BROWN         77 

and  darkly  hinted  at  far  more.  Unfathomable  to  mere 
mortals  is  the  lore  of  fiends.  Verse  after  verse  was  sung, 
and  still  the  chorus  of  the  desert  swelled  between,  like 
the  deepest  tone  of  a  mighty  organ.  And,  with  the  final 
peal  of  that  dreadful  anthem,  there  came  a  sound,  as  if 
the  roaring  wind,  the  rushing  streams,  the  howling  beasts, 
and  every  other  voice  of  the  unconverted  wilderness 
were  mingling  and  according  with  the  voice  of  guilty 
man,  in  homage  to  the  prince  of  all.  The  four  blazing 
pines  threw  up  a  loftier  flame,  and  obscurely  discovered 
shapes  and  visages  of  horror  on  the  smoke-wreaths, 
above  the  impious  assembly.  At  the  same  moment,  the 
fire  on  the  rock  shot  redly  forth,  and  formed  a  glowing 
arch  above  its  base,  where  now  appeared  a  figure.  With 
reverence  be  it  spoken,  the  apparition  bore  no  slight 
similitude,  both  in  garb  and  manner,  to  some  grave  divine 
of  the  New  England  churches. 

"  Bring  forth  the  converts ! "  cried  a  voice,  that  echoed 
through  the  field  and  rolled  into  the  forest. 

At  the  word,  Goodman  Brown  stepped  forth  from  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  and  approached  the  congregation, 
with  whom  he  felt  a  loathful  brotherhood,  by  the  sym- 
pathy of  all  that  was  wicked  in  his  heart.  He  could 
have  well-nigh  sworn,  that  the  shape  of  his  own  dead 
father  beckoned  him  to  advance,  looking  downward  from 
a  smoke-wreath,  while  a  woman,  with  dim  features  of 
despair,  threw  out  her  hand  to  warn  him  back.  Was  it 
his  mother  ?  But  he  had  no  power  to  retreat  one  step, 
nor  to  resist,  even  in  thought,  when  the  minister  and 
good  old  Deacon  Gookin  seized  his  arms,  and  led  him 
to  the  blazing  rock.  Thither  came  also  the  slender  form 
of  a  veiled  female,  led  between  Goody  Cloyse,  that  pious 
teacher  of  the  catechism,  and  Martha  Carrier,  who  had 
received  the  devil's  promise  to  be  queen  of  hell.  A  ram- 
pant hag  was  she !  And  there  stood  the  proselytes,  be- 
neath the  canopy  of  fire. 

"  Welcome,  my  children,"  said  the  dark  figure, 
"  to  the  communion  of  your  race !  Ye  have  found, 
thus  young,  your  nature  and  your  destiny.  My  chil- 
dren, look  behind  you!" 


78     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

They  turned ;  and  flashing  forth,  as  it  were,  in  a 
sheet  of  flame,  the  fiend-worshippers  were  seen ;  the 
smile  of  welcome  gleamed  darkly  on  every  visage. 

"There,"  resumed  the  sable  form,  "are  all  whom 
ye  have  reverenced  from  youth.  Ye  deemed  them 
holier  than  yourselves,  and  shrank  from  your  own  sin, 
contrasting  it  with  their  lives  of  righteousness  and 
prayerful  aspirations  heavenward.  Yet,  here  are  they 
all,  in  my  worshipping  assembly !  This  night  it  shall 
be  granted  you  to  know  their  secret  deeds ;  how 
hoary-bearded  elders  of  the  church  have  whispered 
wanton  words  to  the  young  maids  of  their  house- 
holds ;  how  many  a  woman,  eager  for  widow's 
weeds,  has  given  her  husband  a  drink  at  bedtime, 
and  let  him  sleep  his  last  sleep  in  her  bosom;  how 
beardless  youths  have  made  haste  to  inherit  their 
father's  wealth ;  and  how  fair  damsels  —  blush  not, 
sweet  ones !  —  have  dug  little  graves  in  the  garden, 
and  bidden  me,  the  sole  guest,  to  an  infant's  funeral. 
By  the  sympathy  of  your  human  hearts  for  sin,  ye 
shall  scent  out  all  the  places  —  whether  in  church, 
bed-chamber,  street,  field,  or  forest  —  where  crime  has 
been  committed,  and  shall  exult  to  behold  the  whole 
earth  one  stain  of  guilt,  one  mighty  blood-spot.  Far 
more  than  this !  It  shall  be  yours  to  penetrate,  in 
every  bosom,  the  deep  mystery  of  sin,  the  fountain  of  | 
all  wicked  arts,  and  which  inexhaustibly  supplies  more 
evil  impulses  than  human  power  —  than  my  power, 
at  its  utmost !  —  can  make  manifest  in  deeds.  And 
now,  my  children,  look  upon  each  other." 

They  did  so ;  and,  by  the  blaze  of  the  hell-kindled 
torches,  the  wretched  man  beheld  his  Faith,  and  the 
wife  her  husband,  trembling  before  that  unhallowed 
altar. 

"  Lo !  there  ye  stand,  my  children,"  said  the  figure, 
in  a  deep  and  solemn  tone,  almost  sad,  with  its  de- 
spairing awfulness,  as  if  his  once  angelic  nature  could 
yet  mourn  for  our  miserable  race.  "  Depending  upon 
one  another's  hearts,  ye  had  still  hoped  that  virtue 
were  not  all  a  dream !  Now  are  ye  undeceived !  — 


YOUNG   GOODMAN   BROWN        79 

Evil  is  the  nature   of   mankind.     Evil   must  be   yourj 
only   happiness.      Welcome,    again,    my   children,    to 
the  communion  of  your  race !  " 

"  Welcome !  "  repeated  the  fiend-worshippers,  in  one 
cry  of  despair  and  triumph. 

And  there  they  stood,  the  only  pair,  as  it  seemed, 
who  were  yet  hesitating  on  the  verge  of  wickedness, 
in  this  dark  world.  A  basin  was  hollowed,  naturally, 
in  the  rock.  Did  it  contain  water,  reddened  by  the 
lurid  light  ?  or  was  it  blood  ?  or,  perchance,  a  liquid 
flame?  Herein  did  the  Shape  of  Evil  dip  his  hand, 
and  prepare  to  lay  the  mark  of  baptism  upon  their 
foreheads,  that  they  might  be  partakers  of  the  mystery 
of  sin,  more  conscious  of  the  secret  guilt  of  others, 
both  in  deed  and  thought,  than  they  could  now  be  of 
their  own.  The  husband  cast  one  look  at  his  pale 
wife,  and  Faith  at  him.  What  polluted  wretches 
would  the  next  glance  show  them  to  each  other,  shud- 
dering alike  at  what  they  disclosed  and  what  they  saw ! 

"  Faith  !    Faith  !  "  cried  the  husband.     "  Look  up  to  ' 
Heaven,  and  resist  the  Wicked  One !  " 

Whether  Faith  obeyed,  he  knew  not.  Hardly  had 
he  spoken,  when  he  found  himself  amid  calm  night 
and  solitude,  listening  to  a  roar  of  the  wind,  which 
died  heavily  away  through  the  forest.  He  staggered 
against  the  rock,  and  felt  it  chill  and  damp,  while  a 
hanging  twig,  that  had  been  all  on  fire,  besprinkled 
his  cheek  with  the  coldest  dew. 

The  next  morning,  young  Goodman  Brown  came 
slowly  into  the  street  of  Salem  village  staring  around 
him  like  a  bewildered  man.  The  good  old  minister 
was  taking  a  walk  along  the  grave-yard,  to  get  an  appe- 
tite for  breakfast  and  meditate  his  sermon,  and  be- 
stowed a  blessing,  as  he  passed,  on  Goodman  Brown. 
He  shrank  from  the  venerable  saint,  as  if  to  avoid  an 
anathema.  Old  Deacon  Gookin  was  at  domestic 
worship,  and  the  holy  words  of  his  prayer  were  heard 
through  the  open  window.  "  What  God  doth  the 
wizard  pray  to  ? "  quoth  Goodman  Brown.  Goody 
Cloyse,  that  excellent  old  Christian,  stood  in  the  early 


8o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

sunshine,  at  her  own  lattice,  catechising  a  little  girl, 
who  had  brought  her  a  pint  of  morning's  milk.  Good- 
man Brown  snatched  away  the  child,  as  from  the 
grasp  of  the  fiend  himself.  Turning  the  corner  by 
the  meeting-house,  he  spied  the  head  of  Faith,  with 
the  pink  ribbons,  gazing  anxiously  forth,  and  bursting 
into  such  joy  at  sight  of  him  that  she  skipt  along  the 
street,  and  almost  kissed  her  husband  before  the  whole 
village.  But  Goodman  Brown  looked  sternly  and  sadly 
into  her  face,  and  passed  on  without  a  greeting. 

Had  Goodman  Brown  fallen  asleep  in  the  forest,  and 
only  dreamed  a  wild  dream  of  a  witch-meeting  ? 

Be  it  so,  if  you  will.  But,  alas !  it  was  a  dream  of 
evil  omen  for  young  Goodman  Brown.  A  stern,  a 
sad,  a  darkly  meditative,  a  distrustful,  if  not  a  des- 
perate man  did  he  become,  from  the  night  of  that 
fearful  dream.  On  the  Sabbath  day,  when  the  con- 
gregation were  singing  a  holy  psalm,  he  could  not 
listen,  because  an  anthem  of  sin  rushed  loudly  upon 
his  ear,  and  drowned  all  the  blessed  strain.  When 
the  minister  spoke  from  the  pulpit,  with  power  and 
fervid  eloquence,  and  with  his  hand  on  the  open 
Bible,  of  the  sacred  truths  of  our  religion,  and  of  saint- 
like lives  and  triumphant  deaths,  and  of  future  bliss 
or  misery  unutterable,  then  did  Goodman  Brown  turn 
pale,  dreading  lest  the  roof  should  thunder  down  upon 
the  gray  blasphemer  and  his  hearers.  Often,  awaking 
suddenly  at  midnight,  he  shrank  from  the  bosom  of 
Faith,  and  at  morning  or  eventide,  when  the  family 
knelt  down  at  prayer,  he  scowled,  and  muttered  to 
himself,  and  gazed  sternly  at  his  wife,  and  turned 
away.  And  when  he  had  lived  long,  and  was  borne 
to  his  grave,  a  hoary  corpse,  followed  by  Faith,  an 
aged  woman,  and  children  and  grand-children,  a  goodly 
procession,  besides  neighbors  not  a  few,  they  carved  no 
hopeful  verse  upon  his  tombstone ;  for  his  dying  hour 
was  gloom. 


RAPPACCINFS   DAUGHTER 

A  YOUNG  man,  named  Giovanni  Guasconti,  came, 
very  long  ago,  from  the  more  southern  region  of 
Italy,  to  pursue  his  studies  at  the  University  of  Padua,  ^y 
Giovanni,  who  had  but  a  scanty  supply  of  gold  ducats 
in  his  pocket,  took  lodgings  in  a  high  and  gloomy 
chamber  of  an  old  edifice,  which  looked  not  unworthy 
to  have  been  the  palace  of  a  Paduan  noble,  and  which, 
in  fact,  exhibited  over  its  entrance  the  aVnibrial  bearings 
of  a  family  long  since  extinct.  The  young  stranger, 
who  was  not  unstudied  in  the  great  poem  of  his  country, 
recollected  that  one  of  the  ancestors  of  this  family,  and 
perhaps  an  occupant  of  this  very  mansion,  had  been 
pictured  by  Dante  as  a  partaker  of  the  immortal  agonies 
of  his  Inferno.  These  reminiscences  and  associations, 
together  with  the  tendency  to  heart-break  natural  to  a 
young  man  for  the  first  time  out  of  his  native  sphere, 
caused  Giovanni  to  sigh  heavily,  as  he  looked  around 
the  desolate  and  ill-furnished  apartment. 

"  Holy  Virgin,  signor,"  cried  old  dame  Lisabetta, 
who,  won  by  the  youth's  remarkable  beauty  of  person, 
was  kindly  endeavoring  to  give  the  chamber  a  habitable 
air,  "what  a  sigh  was  that  to  come  out  of  a  young 
man's  heart!  Do  you  find  this  old  mansion  gloomy? 
For  the  love  of  Heaven,  then,  put  your  head  out  of  the 
window,  and  you  will  see  as  bright  sunshine  as  you  have 
left  in  Naples." 

Guasconti  mechanically  did  as  the  old  woman  ad- 
vised, but  could  not  quite  agree  with  her  that  the  Lom- 
bard sunshine  was  as  cheerful  as  that  of  southern  Italy. 
Such  as  it  was,  however,  it  fell  upon  a  garden  beneath 
the  window,  and  expended  its  fostering  influences  on  a 
variety  of  plants  which  seemed  to  have  been  cultivated 
with  exceeding  care. 

Si 


82     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  Does  this  garden  belong  to  the  house  ? "  asked 
Giovanni.  ^^ 

"  Heaven  forbid,  signer !  —  unless  it  were  fruitful  of 
better   pot-herbs  than  any  that  grow   there  now,"  an- 
swered old  Lisabetta.     "  No  :  that  garden  is  cultivated 
by  the  own  hands  of  Sig«or_jGiacoma  Rappaccini,  the 
famous   Doctor,  who,   I  warrant  him,  has  been_heard 
of  as  far  as  Naples.     It  is  said  that  he  distils~~these"f"* 
plants  into  medicines  that  are  as  potent  as  a  charm.  ' 
Oftentimes  you  may  see  the  signer  Doctor  at  work,  and 
perchance  the  signora  his  daughter,  too,  gathering  the 
strange  flowers  that  grow  in  the  garden." 

The  old  woman  had  now  done  what  she  could  for  the 
aspect  of  the  chamber,  and,  commending  the  young  man 
to  the  protection  of  the  saints,  took  her  departure. 

Giovanni  still  found  no  better  occupation  than  to  look 
down  into  the  garden  beneath  his  window.  From  its 
appearance,  he  judged  it  to  be  one  of  those  botanic 
gardens,  which  were  of  earlier  date  in  Padua  than  else- 
where in  Italy,  or  in  the  world.  Or,  not  improbably,  it  /^ 
might  once  have  been  the  pleasure-place  of  an  opulent 
family ;  for  there  was  the  ruin  of  a  marble  fountain  in 
the  centre,  sculptured  with  rare  art,  but  so  wofully 
shattered  that  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  original 
design  from  the  chaos  of  remaining  fragments.  The 
water,  however,  continued  to  gush  and  sparkle  into  the, 
sunbeams  as  cheerfully  as  ever.  A  little  gurgling  sound  / 
ascended  to  the  young  man's  window,  and  made  him  feelj/  / 
as  if  a  fountain  were  an  imrriprtal  spirit,  that  sung  its  song 
unceasingly,  and  without  Heeding  the  vicissitudes  around 
it;  while  one  century  embodied  it  in  marble,  and  an- 
other scattered  the  perishable  garniture  on  the  soil. 
All  about  the  pool  into  which  the  water  subsided  grew 
various  plants,  that  seemed  to  require  a  plentiful  supply 
of  moisture  for  the  nourishment  of  gigantic  leaves,  and, 
in  some  instances,  flowers  gorgeously  magnificent. 
There  was  one  shrub  in  particular,  set  in  a  marble  vase 
in  the  midst  of  the  pool,  that  bore  a  profusion  of  purple 
blossoms,  each  of  jwhich  had  the  lustre  and  richness  of 
a  gem ;  and  the  whole  together  made  a  show  so  resplen- 


'> 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER          83 

dent  that  it  seemed  enough  to  illuminate  the  garden, 
even  had  there  been  no  sunshine.  Every  portion  of  the 
soil  was  peopled  with  plants  an d^  herbs,  which,  if  less 
beautiful,  still  bore  tokens  of  assiduous  care ;  as  if  all  had 
their  individual  virtues,  known  to  the  scientific  mind  that 
fostered  them.  Some  were  placed  in  urns,  rich  with  old 
carving,  and  others  in  common  garden-pots ;  some  crept 
serpent-like  along  the  ground,  or  climbed  on  high,  using 
whatever  means  of  ascent  was  offered  them.  One  plant 
had  wreathed  itself  round  a  statue  of  Vertumnus,  which 
was  thus  quite  veiled  and  shrouded  in  a  drapery  of 
hanging  foliage,  so  happily  arranged  that  it  might  have 
served  a  sculptor  for  a  study. 

While  Giovanni  stood  at  the  window,  he  heard  a  rus- 
tling behind  a  screen  of  leaves,  and  became  aware  that  a 
person  was  at  work  in  the  garden.  His  figure  soon 
emerged  into  view,  and  showed  itself  to  be  that  of  no 
common  laborer,  but  a  tall,  emaciated,  sallow,  and  sickly-^  ' 
looking  man,  dressed  in  a  scholar's  garb  of  black.  He 
was  beyond  the  middle  term  of  life,  with  gray  hair,  a 
thin  gray  beard,  and  a  face  singularly  marked  with  intel- 
lect and  cultivation,  but  which  could  never,  even  in  his 
more  youthful  days,  have  expressed  much  warmth  of 
heart.  ,K/k 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  intentness  with  which  this 
scientific  gardener  examined  every  shrub  which  grew  in  I 
his  path ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  looking  into  their 
inmost  nature,  making  observations  in  regard  to  their 
creative  essence,  and  discovering  why  one  leaf  grew  in 
this  shape,  and  another  in  that,  and  wherefore  such  and 
such  flowers  differed  among  themselves  in  hue  and  per- 
fume. Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  deep  intelligence 
on  his  part,  there  was  no  approach  to  intimacy  between 
himself  and  these  vegetable  existences.  On  the  con-  7 
trary,  he  avoided  their  actual  touch,  or  the  direct  inhal- 
ing  of  their  odors,  with  a  caution  that  impressed 
Giovanni  most  disagreeably;  for  the  man's  demeanor 
was  that  of  one  walking  among  malignant  influences, 
such  as  savage  beasts,  or  deadly  snakes,  or  evil  spirits, 
which,  should  he  allow  them  one  moment  of  license, 


84     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

would  wreak  upon  him  some  terrible  fatality.  It  was 
strangely  frightful  to  the  young  man's  imagination,  to 
see  this  air  of  insecurity  in  a  person  cultivating  a  garden, 
that  most  simple  and  innocent  of  human  toils,  and  which 
had  been  alike  the  joy  and  labor  of  the  unfallen  parents 
of  the  race.  Was  this  garden,  then,  the  Eden  of  the 
present  world  ?  —  and  this  man,  with  such  a  perception  of 
harm  in  what  his  own  hands  caused  to  grow,  was  he  the 
Adam  ? 

The  distrustful  gardener,  while  plucking  away  the 
dead  leaves  or  pruning  the  too  luxuriant  growth  ,of  the 
',  shrubs,  defended  his  hands  with  a  pair  of  thick  gloves. 
Nor  were  these  his  only  armor.  When,  in  his  walk 
through  the  garden  he  came  to  the  magnificent  plant 
that  hung  its  purple  gems  beside  the  marble  fountain, 
he  placed  a  kind  of  mask  over  his  mouth  and  nostrils, 
>]  as  if  all  this  beauty  did  but  conceal  a  deadlier  malice. 
But  finding  his  task  still  too  dangerous,  he  drew  back, 
removed  the  mask,  and  called  loudly,  but  in  the  infirm 
voice  of  a  person  affected  with  inward  disease :  — 

"  Beatrice  !  —  Beatrice  !  " 

"  Here  am  I,  my  father !  What  would  you  ? "  cried  a 
rich  and  youthful  voice  from  the  window  of  the  opposite 
house ;  a  voice  as  rich  as  a  tropical  sunset,  and  which 
made  Giovanni,  though  he  knew  not  why,  think  of  deep 
hues  of  purple  or  crimson,  and  of  perfumes  heavily 
delectable — '"Are  you  in  the  garden?" 

"  Yes,  Beatrice,"  answered  the  gardener,  "  and  I  need 
your  help." 

Soon  there  emerged  from  under  a  sculptured  portal 
the  figure  of  a  young  girl,  arrayed  with  as  much  richness 
of  taste  as  the  most  splendid  of  the  flowers,  beautiful  as 
the  day,  and  with  a  bloom  so  deep  and  vivid  that  one 
shade  more  would  have  been  too  much.  She  looked 
/-redundant  with  life,  health,  and  energy;  all  of  which 
/  attributes  were  bound  down  and  compressed,  as  it  were, 
/  and  girdled  tensely,  in  their  luxuriance,  by  her  virgin 
zone.  Yet  Giovanni's  fancy  must  have  grown  morbid, 
while  he  looked  down  into  the  garden ;  for  the  impres- 
sion which  the  fair  stranger  made  upon  him  was  as  if 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER          85 

here  were  another  flower,  the  human  sister  of  those  vege- 
table ones,  as  beautiful  as  they  —  more  beautiful  than 
the  richest  of  them  —  but  still  to  be  touched  only  with  a 
glove,  nor  to  be  approached  without  a  mask.     As  Bea-    / 
trice  came  down  the  garden-path,  it  was  observable  that  * 
she  handled  and  inhaled  the  odor  of  several  of  the  plants 
which  her  father  had  most  sedulously  avoided. 

"Here,  Beatrice,"  said  the  latter,  —  "see  how  many 
needful  offices  require  to  be  done  to  our  chief  treasure. 
Yet,  shattered  'as  I  am,  my  life  might  pay  the  penalty 
of  approaching  it  so  closely  as  circumstances  demand. 
Henceforth,  I  fear,  this  plant  must  be  consigned  to  your 
sole  charge." 

"  And  gladly  will  I  undertake  it,"  cried  again  the  rich 
tones  of  the  young  lady,  as  she  bent  towards  the  mag- 
nificent plant,  and  opened  her  arms  as  if  to  embrace  it. 
"  Yes,  my  sister,  my  splendor,  it  shall  be  Beatrice's  task 
to  nurse  and  serve  thee  ;  and  thou  shalt  reward  her  with 
thy  kisses  and  perfumed  breath,  which  to  her  is  as  the 
breath  of  life  !  " 

Then,  with  all  the  tenderness  in  her  manner  that  was 
so  strikingly  expressed  in  her  words,  she  busied  herself 
with  such  attentions  as  the  plant  seemed  to  require ;  and 
Giovanni,  at  his  lofty  window,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  al-/ 
most  doubted  whether  it  were  a  girl  tending  her  favorite    / 
flower,  or  one  sister  performing  the  duties  of  affection  to 
another.     The  scene  soon  terminated.     Whether  Doctor 
Rappaccini  had  finished  his  labors  in  the  garden,  or  that 
his  watchful  eye  had  caught  the  stranger's  face,  he  now 
took  his  daughter's  arm  and  retired.     Night  was  already ./ 
closing  in;  oppressive  exhalations  seemed  to  proceed  from 
the  plants,  and  steal  upward  past  the  open  window ;  and 
Giovanni,  closing  the  lattice,  went  to    his  couch,  and 
dreamed  of  a  rich  flower  and  beautiful  girl.     Flower 
and  maiden  were  different  and  yet  the  same,  and  fraught    JL| 
with  some  strange  peril  in  either  shape. 

But  there  is  an  influence  in  the  light  of  morning  that 
tends  to  rectify  whatever  errors  of  fancy,  or  even  of 
judgment,/we  may  have  incurred  during  the  sun's  decline, 
or  among  jthe  shadows  of  the  night,  or  in  the  less  whole- 


w 


86     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

some  glow  of  moonshine.  Giovanni's  first  movement, 
on  starting  from  sleep,  was  to  throw  open  the  window, 
and  gaze  down  into  the  garden  which  his  dreams  had 
made  so  fertile  of  mysteries.  He  was  surprised,  and  a 
little  ashamed,  to  find  how  real  and  matter-of-fact  an 
affair  it  proved  to  be,  in  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  which 
gilded  the  dew-drops  that  hung  upon  leaf  and  blossom, 
and,  while  giving  a  brighter  beauty  to  each  rare  flower, 
brought  everything  within  the  limits  of  ordinary  experi- 
ence. The  young  man  rejoiced  that,  in  the  heart  of  the 
barren  city,  he  had  the  privilege  of  overlooking  this  spot 
of  lovely  and  luxuriant  vegetation.  It  would  serve,  he 
said  to  himself,  as  a  symbolic  language,  to  keep  him  in 
communion  with  nature.  Neither  the  sickly  and  thought- 
worn  Doctor  Giacomo  Rappaccini,  it  is  true,  nor  his  brill- 
iant daughter,  was  now  visible ;  so  that  .Giovanni  could 
not  determine  how  much  of  the  singularity  which  he 
attributed  to  both  was  due  to  their  own  qualities,  and 
how  much  to  his  wonder-working  fancy.  But  he  was 
inclined  to  take  a  most  rational  view  of  the  whole  matter. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  he  paid  his  respects  to  Signer 
Pietro  Baglioni,  professor  of  medicine  in  the  Univer- 
sity, a  physician  of  eminent  repute,  to  whom  Giovanni 
had  brought  a  letter  of  introduction.  The  professor  was 
an  elderly  personage,  apparently  of  genial  nature,  and 
habits  that  might  almost  be  called  jovial ;  he  kept  the 
young  man  to  dinner,  and  made  himself  "very  agreeable 
by  the  freedom  and  liveliness  of  his  conversation,  espe- 
cially when  warmed  by  a  flask  or  two  of  Tuscan  wine. 
Giovanni,  conceiving  that  men  of  science,  inhabitants  of 
the  same  city,  must  needs  be  on  familiar  terms  with  one 
another,  took  an  opportunity  to  mention  the  name  of 
Dr.  Rappaccini.  But  the  professor  did  not  respond 
with  so  much  cordiality  as  he  had  anticipated. 

"  111  would  it  become  a  teacher  of  the  divine  art  of 
medicine,"  said  Professor  Pietro  Baglioni,  in  answer  to 
a  question  of  Giovanni,  "  to  withhold  due  and  well-con- 
sidered praise  of  a  physician  so  eminently  skilled  as 
Rappaccini.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  answer 
it  but  scantily  to  my  conscience,  were  I  to  permit  a 


RAPPACCIN^'S    DAUGHTER          87 

worthy  youth  like  yourself,  Signor  Giovanni,  the  son  of 
an  ancient  friend,  to  imbibe  er^^neous  ideas  respecting    . 
a  man  who  might  hereafter  chance  to  hold  your  life  and  * 
death  in  his  hands.     The  truth  is,  our  worshipful  Doctor 
Rappaccini  has  as  much  science  as  any  member  of  the 
faculty — with  perhaps  one  single  exception  —  in  Padua, 
or  all  Italy.     But  there  are  certain  grave  objections  to 
his  professional  character." 

"  And  what  are  they  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  Has  my  friend  Giovanni  any  disease  of  body  or  heart, 
that  he  is  so  inquisitive  about  physicians  ? "  said  the 
professor,  with  a  smile.  "  But  as  for  Rappaccini,  it  is 
said  of  him  —  and  I,  who  know  the  man  well,  can  answer  / 
for  its  truth  —  that  he  cares  infinitely  more  for  science  v/  / 
than  for  mankind.  His  patients  are  interesting  to  him 
only  as  subjects  for  some  new  experiment.  He  would 
sacrifice  human  life,  his  own  among  the  rest,  or  what- 
ever else  was  dearest  to  him,  for  the  sake  of  adding  so 
much  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  to  the  great  heap  of  his 
accumulated  knowledge." 

"  Methinks  he  is  an  awful  man,  indeed,"  remarked 
Guasconti,  mentally  recalling  the  cold  and  purely  intel- 
lectual aspect  of  Rappaccini.  "  And  yet,  worshipful 
Professor,  is  it  not  a  noble  spirit?  Are  there  many 
men  capable  of  so  spiritual  a  love  of_sdiencsJ^L-^'^^[^  t%^9^ 

"  God  forbid,"  answereoTThe  prof essor^  somewhat 
testily  —  "at  least,  unless  they  take  sounder  views  of 
the  healing  art  than  those  adopted  by  Rappaccini.  It 
is  his  theory,  that  all  medicinal  virtues  are  comprised 
within  those  substances  which  we  term  vegetable  poi- 
sons. These  he  cultivates  with  his  own  hands,  and  is 
said  even  to  have  produced  new  varieties  of  poison,  more 
horribly  deleterious  than  Nature,  without  the  assistance 

of  this  learned  person,  would  ever  have  plagued  the ^ 

world  with.  That  the  signer  Doctor  does  less  mischief 
than  might  be  expected,  with  such  dangerous  substances, 
is  undeniable.  Now  and  then,  it  must  be  owned,  he  has 
effected  —  or  seemed  to  effect  —  a  marvellous  cure.  But, 
to  tell  you  my  private  mind,  Signor  Giovanni,  he  should 
receive  little  credit  for  such  instances  of  success  —  they 


88     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 
£&#> 

being  probably  the  work  of  chance  —  but  should  be  held 
strictly  accountable  for  his  failures,  which  may  justly 
be  considered  his  own  work." 

The  youth  might  have  taken  Baglioni's  opinions  with 
many  grains  of  allowance,  had  he  known  that  there  was 
a  professional  warfare  of  long  continuance  between  him 
and  Doctor  Rappaccini,  in  which  the  latter  was  gen- 
erally thought  to  have  gained  the  advantage.  If  the 
reader  be  inclined  to  judge  for  himself,  we  refer  him  to 
certain  black-letter  tracts  on  both  sides,  preserved  in  the 
medical  department  of  the  University  of  Padua. 

"  I  know  not,  most  learned  Professor,"  returned  Gio- 
vanni, after  musing  on  what  had  been  said  of  Rappac- 
cini's  exclusive  zeal  for  science,  —  "I  know  not  how 
dearly  this  physician  may  love  his  art ;  but  surely  there 
is  one  object  more  dear  to  him.  He  has  a  daughter." 

"  Aha  !  "  cried  the  professor,  with  a  laugh.  "  So  now 
our  friend  Giovanni's  secret  is  out.  You  have  heard  of 
this  daughter,  whom  all  the  young  men  in  Padua  are 
wild  about,  though  not  half  a  dozen  have  ever  had  the 
good  hap  to  see  her  face.  I  know  little  of  the  Signora 
Beatrice,  save  that  Rappaccini  is  said  to  have  instructed 
her  deeply  in  his  science,  and  that,  young  and  beautiful 
as  fame  reports  her,  she  is  already  qualified  to  fill  a  pro- 
fessor's chair.  Perchance  her  father  destines  her  for 
mine  !  Other  absurd  rumors  there  be,  not  worth  talking 
about  or  listening  to.  So  now,  Signer  Giovanni,  drink 
off  your  glass  of  Lacryma." 

Guasconti  returned  to  his  lodgings  somewhat  heated 
with  the  wine  he  had  quaffed,  and  which  caused  his 
brain  to  swim  with  strange  fantasies  in  reference  to 
Doctor  Rappaccini  and  the  beautiful  Beatrice.  On  his 
way,  happening  to  pass  by  a  florist's,  he  bought  a  fresh 
bouquet  of  flowers. 

Ascending  to  his  chamber,  he  seated  himself  near  the 
window,  but  within  the  shadow  thrown  by  the  depth  of 
the  wall,  so  that  he  could  look  down  into  the  garden 
with  little  risk  of  being  discovered.  All  beneath  his  eye 
was  a  solitude.  The  strange  plants  were  basking  in 
the  sunshine,  and  now  and  then  nodding  gently  to  one 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER          89 

another,  as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  sympathy  and  kin- 
dred. In  the  midst,  by  the  shattered  fountain,  grew  the 
magnificent  shrub,  with  its  purple  gems  clustering  all 
over  it ;  they  glowed  in  the  air,  and  gleamed  back  again 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  pool,  which  thus  seemed  to 
overflow  with  colored  radiance  from  the  rich  reflection 
that  was  steeped  in  it.  At  first,  as  we  have  said,  the 
garden  was  a  solitude.  Soon,  however,  —  as  Giovanni 
had  half-hoped,  half-feared,  would  be  the  case,  —  a  figure 
appeared  beneath  the  antique  sculptured  portal,  and  came 
down  between  the  rows  of  plants,  inhaling  their  various 
perfumes,  as  if  she  were  one  of  those  beings  of  old  classic 
fable,  that  lived  upon  sweet  odors.  On  again  beholding 
Beatrice,  the  young  man  was  even  startled  to  perceive 
how  much  her  beauty  exceeded  his  recollection  of  it ;  so 
brilliant,  so  vivid  in  its  character,  that  she  glowed  amid 
the  sunlight,  and,  as  Giovanni  whispered  to  himself,  posi- 
tively illuminated  the  more  shadowy  intervals  of  the  gar- 
den path.  Her  face  being  now  more  revealed  than  on 
the  former  occasion,  he  was  struck  by  its  expression  of 
simplicity  and  sweetness;  qualities  that  had  not  entered  v' 
into  his  idea  of  her  character,  and  which  made  him  ask 
anew,  what  manner  of  mortal  she  might  be.  Nor  did  he 
fail  again  to  observe,  or  imagine,  an  analogy  between  the 
beautiful  girl  and  the  gorgeous  shrub  that  hung  its  gem- 
like  flowers  over  the  fountain ;  a  resemblance  which 
Beatrice  seemed  to  have  indulged  a  fantastic  humor  in 
heightening,  both  by  the  arrangement  of  her  dress  and 
the  selection  of  its  hues. 

Approaching  the  shrub,  she  threw  open  her  arms,  as 
with  a  passionate  ardor,  and  drew  its  branches  into  an 
intimate  embrace ;  so  intimate,  that  her  features  were 
hidden  in  its  leafy  bosom,  and  her  glistening  ringlets  all 
intermingled  with  the  flowers. 

"  Give  me  thy  breath,  my  sister,"  exclaimed  Beatrice ; 
"  for  I  am  faint  with  common  air !  And  give  me  this 
flower  of  thine,  which  I  separate  with  gentlest  fingers 
from  the  stem,  and  place  it  close  beside  my  heart." 

With  these  words,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Rappac- 
cini  plucked  one  of  the  richest  blossoms  of  the  shrub, 


9o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

and  was  about  to  fasten  it  in  her  bosom.  But  now, 
unless  Giovanni's  draughts  of  wine  had  bewildered  his 
mses,  a  singular  incident  occurred.  A  small  orange- 
coiofebT~reptile,  of  the  lizard  or  chameleon  species, 
chanced  to  be  creeping  along  the  path,  just  at  the  feet 
of  Beatrice.  It  appeared  to  Giovanni  —  but,  at  the  dis- 
tance from  which  he  gazed,  he  could  scarcely  have  seen 
anything  so  minute  —  it  appeared  to  him,  however,  that 
a  drop  or  two  of  moisture  from  the  broken  stem  of  the 
-flower  descended  upon  the  lizard's  head.  For  an  instant, 
the  reptile  cdntof ted  itself  violently,  and  then  lay  motion- 
less in  the  sunshine.  Beatrice  observed  this  remarkable 
phenomenon,  and  crossed  herself,  sadly,  but  without  sur- 
prise ;  nor  did  she  therefore  hesitate  to  arrange  the  fatal 
flower  in  her  bosom.  There  it  blushed,  and  almost  glim- 
mered with  the  dazzling  effect  of  a  precious  stone,  add- 
ing to  her  dress  and  aspect  the  one  appropriate  charm, 
which  nothing  else  in  the  world  could  have  supplied. 
But  Giovanni,  out  of  the  shadow  of  his  window,  bent 
forward  and  shrank  back,  and  murmured  and  trembled. 

"  Am  I  awake  ?  Have  I  my  senses  ? "  said  he  to  him- 
self. "  What  is  this  being  ?  —  beautiful,  shall  I  call  her  ? 
—  or  inexpressibly  terrible? " 

Beatrice  now  strayed  carelessly  through  the  garden, 
approaching  closer  beneath  Giovanni's  window,  so  that 
he  was  compelled  to  thrust  his  head  quite  out  of  its  con- 
cealment, in  order  to  gratify  the  intense  and  painful 
curiosity  which  she  excited.  At  this  moment,  there 
came  a  beautiful  insect  over  the  garden  wall ;  it  had 
perhaps  wandered  through  the  city  and  found  no  flowers 
nor  verdure  among  those  antique  haunts  of  men,  until  the 
heavy  perfumes  of  Doctor  Rappaccini's  shrubs  had 
lured  it  from  afar.  Without  alighting  on  the  flowers, 
this  winged  brightness  seemed  to  be  attracted  by  Bea- 
trice, and  lingered  in  the  air  and  fluttered  about  her  head. 
Now  here  it  could  not  be  but  that  Giovanni  Guasconti's 
eyes  deceived  him.  Be  that  as  it  might,  he  fancied  that 
while  Beatrice  was  gazing  at  the  insect  with  childish  de- 
light, it  grew  faint  and  fell  at  her  feet! — its  bright 
wings  shivered  !  it  was  dead !  —  from  no  cause  that  he 


RAPPACCINFS   DAUGHTER          91 

could  discern,  unless  it  were  the  atmosphere  of  her 
breath.  Again  Beatrice  crossed  herself  and  sighed 
heavily,  as  she  bent  over  the  dead  insect. 

An  impulsive  movement  of  Giovanni  drew  her  eyes 
to  the  window.  There  she  beheld  the  beautiful  head  of 
the  young  man  —  rather  a  Grecian  than  an  Italian  head, 
with  fair  regular  features,  and  a  glistening  of  gold 
among  his  ringlets  — gazing  down  upon  her  like  a  being 
that  hovered  in  mid-air.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did, 
Giovanni  threw  down  the  bouquet  which  he  had  hitherto 
held  in  his  hand. 

"  Signora,"  said  he,  "  there  are  pure  and  health- 
ful flowers.  Wear  them  for  the  sake  of  Giovanni 
Guasconti ! " 

"Thanks,  Signer,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  her  rich 
voice  that  came  forth  as  it  were  like  a  gush  of  music ; 
and  with  a  mirthful  expression  half  childish  and  half 
woman-like.  "  I  accept  your  gift,  and  would  fain'" 
recompense  it  with  this  precious  purple  flower ;  but  if 
I  toss  it  into  the  air,  it  will  not  reach  you.  So  Signor 
Guasconti  must  even  content  himself  with  my  thanks." 

She   lifted  the  bouquet  from  the  ground,  and   then 
as  if  inwardly  ashamed  at  having  stepped  aside  from 
her  maidenly  reserve  to  respond  to  a  stranger's  greet- 
ing,   passed   swiftly    homeward    through    the    garden. 
But,  few  as  the  moments  were,  k^e^med  to  Giovanni 
when  she  was  on  the  point  of  vanishing  beneath  the    . 
sculptured     portal,    that     his    beautiful    bouquet    was  ^ 
already  beginning  to  wither  in  her  grasp.     It  was  an  idle 
thought ;  there  could  be  no  possibility  of  distinguishing 
a  faded  flower  from  a  fresh  one,  at  so  great  a  distance. 

For  many  days  after  this  incident,  the  young  man 
avoided  the  window  that  looked  into  Doctor  Rappac- 
cini's  garden,  as  if  something  ugly  and  monstrous 
would  have  blasted  his  eyesight  had  he  been  betrayed 
into  a  glance.  He  felt  conscious  of  having  put  him- 
self to  a  certain  extent  within  the  influence  of  an 
unintelligible  power,  by  the  communication  which  he 
had  opened  with  Beatrice.  The  wisest  course  would 
have  been,  if  his  heart  were  in  any  real  danger,  to  quit 


92     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 


his  lodgings  and  Padua  itself,  at  once;  the  next  wiser, 
to  have  accustomed  himself,  as  far  as  possible,  to  the 
familiar  and  daylight  view  of  Beatrice ;  thus  bringing 
her  rigidly  and  systematically  within  the  limits  of 
ordinary  experience.  Least  of  all,  while  avoiding  her 
sight,  should  Giovanni  have  remained  so  near  this 
extraordinary  being,  that  the  proximity  and  "possibility^  -^ 
^veiTorintercourse^should  give  a  kind  of  substance  and 
reality  to  the  wild  vagaries  which  his  imagination  ran 
riot  continually  in  producing.  Guasconti  had  not  a  deep 
heart  —  or  at  all  events,  its  depths  were  not  sounded 
now  —  but  he  had  a  quick  fancy,  and  an  ardent  southern 
temperament,  which  rose  every  instant  to  a  higher  fever- 
pitch.  Whether  or  no  Beatrice  possessed  those  terrible 
attributes  —  that  fatal  breath  —  the  affinity  with  those 
so  beautiful  and  deadly  flowers  —  which  were  indicated 
by  what  Giovanni  had  witnessed,  she  had  at  least 
instilled  a  fierce  and  subtle  poison  into  his  system.  It 
was  not  love,  although  her  rich  beauty  was  a  madness 
to  him ;  nor  horror,  even  while  he  fancied  her  spirit  to 
be  imbued  with  the  same  baneful  essence  that  seemed 
to  pervade  her  physical  frame ;  but  a  wild  offspring  of 
both  love  and  horror  that  had  each  parent  in  it,  and 
burned  like  one  and  shivered  like  the  other.  Giovanni 
knew  not  what  to  dread ;  still  less  did  he  know  what  to 
hope ;  yet  hope  and  dread  ,k,ept  a  continual  warfare  in 
his  breast,  alternately  vanquishing  one  another  and 
starting  up  afresh  to  renew  the  contest.''  Blessed  are  all 
simple  emotions,  be  they  dark  or  bright !  It  is  the  lurid 
intermixture  of  the  two  that  produces  the  illuminating 
blaze  of  the  infernal  regions.  JT 

Sometimes  he  endeavored  to  assuagerthe  fever  of  his 
spirit  by  a  rapid  walk  through  the  streets  of  Padua,  or 
beyond  its  gates;  his  footsteps^kept  time  with  the 
throbbings  of  his  brain,  so  that  the  walk  was  apt  to 
accelerate  itself  to  a  race.  One  day  he  found  himself 
arrested;  his  arm  was  seized  by  a  portly  personage  who 
had  turned  back  on  recognizing  the  young  man,  and 
expended  much  breath  in  overtaking  him. 

"Signer  Giovanni!  —  stay,  my  young  friend!"  cried 


RAPPACCINFS    DAUGHTER          93 

he.     "  Have  you  forgotten  me  ?    That  might  well  be  the 
case,  if  I  were  as  much  altered  as  yourself." 

It  was  Baglioni,  whom  Giovanni  had  avoided,  ever 
since  their  firjj:  meeting,  from  a  doubt  that  the  pro- 
fessor's sagacity'would  look  too  deeply  into  his  secrets. 
Endeavoring  to  recover  himself,  he  stared  forth  wildly 
from  his  inner  world  into  the  outer  one,  and  spoke  like 
a  man  in  a  dream. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  Giovanni  Guasconti.  You  are  Professor 
Pietro  Baglioni.  Now  let  me  pass !  " 

"Not  yet  —  not  yet,  Signer  Giovanni  Guasconti,"  said 
the  professor,  smiling,  but  at  the  same  time  scrutinizing 
the  youth  with  an  earnest  glance.  —  "  What ;  did  I  grow 
up  side  by  side  with  your  father,  and  shall  his  son  pass 
me  like  a  stranger,  in  these  old  streets  of  Padua  ? 
Stand  still,  Signer  Giovanni ;  for  we  must  have  a  word 
or  two  before  we  part." 

"Speedily,  then,  most  worshipful  Professor,  speed- 
ily !  "  said  Giovanni,  with  feverish  impatience.  "  Does 
not  your  worship  see  that  I  am  in  haste  ?  " 

Now,  while  he  was  speaking,  there  came  a  man  in 
black  along  the  street,  stooping  and  moving  feebly,  like 
a  person  in  inferior  health.  His  face  was  all  overspread 
with  a  most  sickly  and  sallow  hue,  but  yet  so  pervaded 
with  an  expression  of  piercing  and  active  intellect,  that 
an  observer  might  easily  have  overlooked  the  merely 
physical  attributes,  and  have  seen  only  this  wonderful 
energy.  As  he  passed,  this  person  exchanged  a  cold 
and  distant  salutation  with  Baglioni,  but  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  Giovanni  with  an  intentness  that  seemed  to  bring 
out  whatever  was  within  him  worthy  of  notice.  Never- 
theless, there  was  a  peculiar  quietness  in  the  look,  as  if"  j 
taking  merely  a  speculative,  not  a  human,  interest  in  the 
young  man. 

"  It  is  Doctor  Rappaccini !  "  whispered  the  professor, 
when  the  stranger  had  passed.  —  "Has  he  ever  seen 
your  face  before  ? " 

"Not  that  I  know,"  answered  Giovanni,  starting  at 
the  name. 

"  He  has  seen  you  !  —  he  must  have  seen  you  !  "  said 


94     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

Baglioni,  hastily.  "  For  some  purpose  or  other,  this 
man  of  science  is  making  a  study  of  you.  I  know  that 
look  of  his !  It  is  the  same  that  coldly  illuminates  his 
face,  as  he  bends  over  a  bird,  a  mouse,  or  a  butterfly, 
which,  in  pursuance  of  some  experiment,  he  has  killed 
by  the  perfume  of  a  flower ;  —  a  look  as  deep  as  nature 
itself,  but  without  nature's  warmth  of  love.  Signer 
Giovanni,  I  will  stake  my  life  upon  it,  you  are  the  sub- 
ject of  one  of  Rappaccini's  experiments !  " 

"  Will  you  make  a  fool  of  me  ? "  cried  Giovanni, 
passionately.  "  That,  Signor  Professor,  were  an  un- 
toward experiment." 

"  Patience,  patience ! "  replied  the  imperturbable 
professor.  "  I  tell  thee,  my  poor  Giovanni,  that 
Rappaccini  has  a  scientific  interest  in  thee.  Thou 
hast  fallen  into  fearful  hands!  And  the  Signora 
Beatrice?  What  part  does  she  act  in  this  mystery?" 

But  Guasconti,  finding  Baglioni's  pertinacity  intoler- 
able, here  broke  away,  and  was  gone  before  the  professor 
could  again  seize  his  arm.  He  looked  after  the  young 
man  intently,  and  shook  his  head. 

"This  must  not  be,"  said  Baglioni  to  himself.  "  The 
youth  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  and  shall  not  come  to 
any  harm  from  which  the  arcana  of  medical  science  can 
preserve  him.  Besides,  it  is  too  insufferable  an  imperti- 
nence in  Rappaccini  thus  to  snatch  the  lad  out  of  my 
own  hands,  as  I  may  say,  and  make  use  of  him  for  his 
infernal  experiments.  This  daughter  of  his !  It  shall 
._jDe_lpoked  to.  Perchance,  most  learned  Rappaccini,  I 
^  mayloil  you  where  you  little  dream  of  it!" 

Meanwhile,  Giovanni  had  pursued  a  circuitous  route, 
and  at  length  found  himself  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings. 
As  he  crossed  the  threshold,  he  was  met  by  old  Lisabetta, 
who^sniirked  and  smiled,  and  was  evidently  desirous  to 
-attract  his  attention ;  vainly,  however,  as  the  ebullition 
of  his  feelings  had  momentarily  subsided  into  a  cold  and 
dull  vacuity.  He  turned  his  eyes  full  upon  the  withered 
face  that  was  puckering  itself  into  a  smile,  but  seemed  to 
behold  it  not.  The  old  dame,  therefore,  laid  her  grasp 
upon  his  cloak.  \ 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER          95 

"  Signer !  —  Signer !  "  whispered  she,  still  with  a  smile 
over  the  whole  breadth  of  her  visage,  so  that  it  looked 
not  unlike  a  grotesque  carving  in  wood,  darkened  by 
centuries  —  *'  Listen,  Signor !  There  is  a  private  en- 
trance into  the  garden  !  " 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  exclaimed  Giovanni,  turning 
quickly  about,  as  if  an  inanimate  thing  should  start 
into  feverish  life.  —  "A  private  entrance  into  Doctor 
Rappaccini's  garden ! " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  —  not  so  loud  !  "  whispered  Lisabetta, 
putting  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  "Yes;  into  the 
worshipful  Doctor's  garden,  where  you  may  see  all  his 
fine  shrubbery.  Many  a  young  man  in  Padua  would 
give  gold  to  be  admitted  among  those  flowers." 

Giovanni  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  her  hand. 

"  Show  me  the  way,"  said  he. 

A  surmise,  probably  excited  by  his  conversation  with 
Baglioni,  crossed  his  mind,  that  this  interposition  of  oldV^^^ 
Lisabetta  might  perchance  be  connected  with  the  4ns.  i<l 
trigue,  whatever  were  its  nature,  in  which  the  professor 
seemed  to  suppose  that  Doctor  Rappaccini  was  involv- 
ing him.  But  such  a  suspicion,  though  it  disturbed 
Giovanni,  was  inadequate  to  restrain  him.  The  instant 
he  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  approaching  Beatrice, 
it  seemed  an  absolute  necessity  of  his  existence  to  do  so. 
It  mattered  not  whether  she  were  angel  or  demon ;  he 
was  irrevocably  within  her  sphere,  and  must  obey  the 
law  that  whirled  him  onward,  in  ever  lessening  circles,^— <f7^ 
towards  a  result  which  he  did  not  attempt  to  f oreshadowT 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  there  came  across  him  a  sudden 
doubt,  whether  this  intense  interest  on  his  part  were  not/ 
delusory  —  whether  it  were  really  of  so  deep  and  positive 
a  nature  as  to  justify  him  in  now  thrusting  himself  into 
an  incalculable  position  —  whether  it  were  not  merely  the 
fantasy  of  a  young  man's  brain,  only  slightly,  or  not  at 
all,  connected  with  his  heart ! 

He  paused  —  hesitated — turned  half  about  —  but 
again  went  on.  His  withered  guide  led  him  along 
several  obscure  passages,  j  and  finally  undid  a  door, 
through  which,  as  it  was  opened,  there  came  the  sight 


96     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

and  sound  of  rustling  leaves  with  the  broken  sunshir.e 
glimmering  among  them.  Giovanni  stepped  forth,  and 
forcing  himself  through  the  entanglement  of  a  shrub 
that  wreathed  its  tendrils  over  the  hidden  entrance,  he 
stood  beneath  his  own  whnlpw,  in  the  open  area  of 
Doctor  Rappaccini's  garden. 

How  often  is  it  the  case,  that,  when  impossibilities 
have  come  to  pass,  and  dreams  have  condensed  their 
misty  substance  into  tangible  realities,  we  find  ourselves 
calm,  and  even  coldly  self-possessed,  amid  circumstances 
which  it  would  have  been  a  delirium  of  joy  or  agony  to 
anticipate  !  Fate  delights  to  thSvart  us  thus.  Passion 
will  choose  his  own  time  to  rush  upon  the  scene,  and 
lingers  sluggishly  behind,  when  an  .appropriate  adjust- 
ment of  events  would  seem  to  summon  his  appearance. 
So  was  tt  now  with  Giovanni.  Day  after  day,  his  pulses  ^^t 
had  throbbed  with  feverish  blood,  at  the  improbableTdeaT^ 
of  an  interview  with  Beatrice,  and  pf  standing  with  her, 
face  to  face,  in  this  very  garden,  basking  in  the  oriental 
sunshine  of  her  beauty,  and  snatching  from  her  full  gaze 
the  mystery  which  he  deemed  the  riddle  of  his  own  ex- 
istence.  But  how  there  was  a  singular  and  untimely 
animity  within  his  breast.  He  threw  a  glance  around 
the  garden  to  discover  if  Beatrice  or  her  father  were 
present,  and  perceiving  that  he  was  alone,  began  a  criti- 
cal observation  of  the  plants. 

The  aspect  of  one  and  all  of  them  dissatisfied  him ; 
their  gorgeousness  seemed  fierce,  passionate,  and  even 
unnatural.  There  was  hardly  an  individual  shrub  which 
a  wanderer,  straying  by  himself  through  a  forest,  would 
not  have  been  startled  to  find  growing  wild,  as  if  an 
unearthly  face  had  glared  at  him  out  of  the  thicket. 
Several,  also,  would  have  shocked  a  delicate  instinct  by 
an  appearance  of  artificialness,  indicating  that  there  had 
,  been  such  commixture,  and,  as  it  were,  adultery,  of 
j  various  vegetable  species,  that,  the  production  was  no 
longer  of  God's  making,  but  the  monstrous  offspring  of 
man's  depraved  fancy,  glowing  with  only  an  evil  mockery 
of  beauty.  They  were  probably  the  result  of  experiment, 
which,  in  I  one  or  two  cases,  had  succeeded  in  mingling 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER         97 

plants  individually  lovely  into  a  compound  possessing 
the  questionable  and  ominous  character  that  distin- 
guished the  whole  growth  of  the  garden.  In  fine, 
Giovianni  recognized  but  two  or  three  plants  in  the 
collection,  and  those  of  a  kind  that  he  well  knew  to  be 
poisonous.  While  busy  with  these  contemplations,  he 
heard  the  rustling  of  a  silken  garment,  and  turning, 
beheld  Beatrice  emerging  from  beneath  the  sculptured 
portal. 

Giovanni  had  not  considered  with  himself  what  should 
be  his  deportment ;  whether  he  should  apologize  for  his 
intrusion  into  the  garden,  or  assume  that  he  was  there 
with  the  privity,  at  least,  if  not  by  the  desire,  of  Doctor 
Rappaccini  or  his  daughter.  But  Beatrice's  manner 
placed  him  at  his  ease,  though  leaving  him  still  in  doubt 
by  what  agency  he  had  gained  admittance.  She  came 
lightly  along  the  path,  and  met  him  near  the  broken 
fountain.  There  was  surprise  in  her  face,  but  brightened 
by  a  simple  and  kind  expression  of  pleasure. 

"You  are  a  connoisseur  in  flowers,  Signer,"  said 
Beatrice,  with  a  smile,  alhjriinff  |n  the  bouquet  which  he 
had  flung  her  from  the^window.  "It  is  no  marvel, 
therefore,  if  the  sight  of  my  father's  rare  collection  has 
tempted  you  to  take  a  nearer  view.  If  he  were  here,  he 
could  tell  you  many  strange  and  interesting  facts  as  to 
the  nature  and  habits  of  these  shrubs,  for  he  has  spent 
a  lifetime  in  such  studies,  and  this  garden  is  his  world." 

"  And  yourself,  lady  "  — observed  Giovanni  —  "  if  fame 
says  true  —  you,  likewise,  are  deeply  skilled  in  the  virtues 
indicated  by  these  rich  blossoms  and  these  spicy  perL_ 
fumes.  Would  you  deign  to  be  my  instructress,  I  should 
prove  an  apter  scholar  than  under  Signor  Rappaccini 
himself." 

"  Are  there  such  idle  rumors  ?  "  asked  Beatrice,  with 
the  music  of  a  pleasant  laugh.  "  Do  people  say  that  I 
am  skilled  in  my  father's  science  of  plants  ?  What  a 
jest  is  there  !  No ;  though  I  have  grown  up  among 
these  flowers,  I  know  no  more  of  them  than  their  hues 
and  perfume ;  and,  sometimes,  methinks  I  would  fain  rid^ — tsaCf 
myself  of  even  that  small  knowledge.  There  are  many 


98     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

flowers  here,  and  those  not  the  least  brilliant,  that  shock 
and  offend  me,  when  they  meet  my  eye.  But,  pray, 
Signer,  do  not  believe  these  stories  about  my  science. 
Believe  nothing  of  me  save  what  you  see  with  your  own 
eyes."  '  I 

"  And  must  I  believe  all  that  I  have  seen  with  my 
own  eyes  ?  "  asked  Giovanni,  pointedly,  while  the  recol- 
lection of  former  scenes  made  him  shrink.  "  No,  Sig- 
nora,  you  demand  too  little  of  me.  Bid  me  believe 
nothing,  save  what  comes  from  your  own  lips." 

It  would  appear  that  Beatrice  understood  him.  There 
came  a  deep  flush  to  her  cheek;  but  she  looked  full 
into  Giovanni'  sVyes,  and  responded  to  his  gaze  of  un- 
easy suspicion  with  a  queenlike  haughtiness. 
^  so  T)id 


you,  Signer  !  "  she  replied.  "  Forget 
whatever  you  may  have  fancied  in  regard  to  me.  If 
true  to  the  outward  senses,  still  it  may  be  false  in  its 

j  essence.  But  the  words  of  Beatrice  Rappaccini's  lips 
are  true  from  the  heart  outward.  Those  you  may 
believe  !  "_, 

A  fervor  glowed  in  her  whole  aspect,  and  beamed 
upon  Giovanni's  consciousness  like  the  light  of  truth 
itself.  But  while  she  spoke,  there  was  a  fragrance  in 
the  atmosphere  around  her  rich  and  delightful,  though 
evanescent,  yet  which  the  young  man,  from  an  indefin- 
able reluctance,  scarcely  dared  to  draw  into  his  lungs.  It 
might  be  the  odor  of^the  flowers.  Could  it  be  Beatrice's 
breath,  which  thus  efnbalmed  her  words  with  a  strange 
richness,  as  if  by  steeping  them  in  her  heart  ?  A  faint- 
ness  passed  like  a  shadow  over  Giovanni,  and  flitted 

j  away  ;  he  seemed  to  gaze  through  the  beautiful  girl's 
eyes  into  her  transparent  soul,  and  felt  no  more  doubt 
or  fear.^j^ 

The  tinge  of  passion  that  had  colored  Beatrice's  man- 
ner vanished  :  she  became  gay,  and  appeared  to  derive 
a  pure  delight  from  her  communion  with  the  youth,  not 
unlike  what  the  maiden  of  a  lonely  island  might  have 
felt,  cpnyersiogjEith  a  voyager  from  the  civilized  world. 
Evidently  her  experience  of  life  had  been  confined 
within  the  .limits  of  that  garden.  She  talked  now  about 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER         »*, 

matters  as  simple  as  the  daylight  or  summer-clouds,  and 
now  asked  questions  in  reference  to  the  city,  or  Gio- 
vanni's distant  home,  his  friends,  his  mother,  and  his 
sisters ;  questions  indicating  such  seclusion,  and  such 
lack  of  familiarity  with  modes  and  forms,  that  Giovanni 
responded  as  if  to  an  infant.  Her  spirit  gushed  out 
before  him  like  a  fresh' rill,  that  was  just  catching  its 
first  glimpse  of  the  sunlight,  and  wondering  at  the  reflec- 
tions of  earth  and  sky  which  were  flung  into  its  bosom. 

There  came  thoughts,  too,  from  a  deep  source,  and 
fantasies  of  a  gemlike  brilliancy,  as  if  diamonds  and 
rubies  sparkled  upward  among  tjie  Bubbles  of  the  foun- 
tain. Ever  and  anon,  there  gleamed  across  the  young 
man's  mind  a  sense  of  wonder,  that  he  should  be  walk- 
ing side  by  side  with  the  being  who  had  so  wrought 
upon  his  imagination  —  whom  he  had  idealized  in  such 
hues  of  terror  —  in  whom  he  had  positively  witnessed 
such  manifestations  of  dreadful  attributes  —  that  he 
should  be  conversing  with  Beatrice  like  a  brother,  and 
should  find  her  so  human  and  so  maidenlike.  But  such 
reflections  were  only  momentary ;  the  effect  of  her  char- 
acter was  too  real,  not  to  make  itself  familiar  at  once. 

In  this  free  intercourse,  they  had  strayed  through  the 
garden,  and  now,  after  many  turns  among  its  avenues, 
were  come  to  the  shattered  fountain,  beside  which  grew 
the  magnificent  shrub  with  its  treasury  of  glowing  blos- 
soms. A  fragrance  was  diffused  from  it,  which  Giovanni 
recognized  as  identical  wittTffiSt  which  he  had  attributed^ 
to  Beatrice's  breath,  but  incomparably  more  powerful/ 
As  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  Giovanni  beheld  her  press  her 
hand  to  her  bosom,  as  if  her  heart  were  throbbing  sud- 
denly and  painfully. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  murmured  she,  ad- 
dressing the  shrub,  "  I  had  forgotten  thee !  " 

"I  remember,  Signora,"  said  Giovanni,  "that  you 
once  promised  to  reward  me  with  one  of  these  living 
gems  for  the  bouquet  which  I  had  the  happy  boldness 
to  fling  to  your  feet.  Permit  me  now  to  pluck  it  as  a 
memorial  of  this  interview." 

He  made   a   step  towards  the  shrub,  with  extended 


ioo  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

hand.  But  Beatrice  darted  forward,  uttering  a  shriek 
that  went  through  his  heart  like  a  dagger.  She  caught 
his  hand,  and  drew  it  back  with  the  whole  force  of  her 
slender  figure.  Giovanni  felt  her  touch  thrilling  through 
..  his  fibres.  "HflK-  *A>N 

"  Touch  it  not !  "  exclaimed  she,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 
"  Not  for  thy  life  !  It  is  fatal !  " 

Then,  hiding  her  face,  she  fled  from  him,  and  van- 
ished beneath  the  sculptured  portal.  As  Giovanni  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes,  he  beheld  the  emaciated  figure 
and  pale  intelligence  of  Doctor  Rappaccini,  who  had 
been  watching  the  scene,  he  knew  not  how  long,  within 
the  shadow  of  the  entrance. 

No  sooner  was  Guasconti  alone  in  his  chamber,  than 
the  image  of  Beatrice  came  back  to  his  passionate  mus- 
ings, invested  with  all  the  witchery  that  had  been  gath- 
ering around  it  ever  since  his  first  glimpse  of  her,  and 
now  likewise  imbued  with  a  tender  warmth  of  girlish 
womanhood.  She  was  human;  her  nature  was  en- 
dowed with  all  gentle  and  feminine  qualities ;  she  was 
worthiest  to  be  worshipped ;  she  was  capable,  surely,  on 
her  part,  of  the  height  and  heroism  of  love.  Those 
tokens,  which  he  had  hitherto  considered  as  proofs  of  a 
frightful  peculiarity  in  her  physical  and  moral  system, 
were  now  either  forgotten,  or,  by  the  subtle  sophistry  of 
passion,  transmuted  into  a  golden  crown  of  enchant- 
ment, rendering  Beatrice  the  more  admirable,  by  so 
much  as  she  was  the  more  unique.  Whatever  had 
looked  ugly,  was  now  beautiful ;  or,  if  incapable  of  such 
a  change,  it  stole  away  and  hid  itself  among  those  shape- 
less half-ideas,  which  throng  the  dim  region  beyond  the 
daylight  of  our  perfect  consciousness.  Thus  did  Gio- 
vanni spend  the  night,  nor  fell  asleep,  until  the  dawn 
had  begun  to  awake  the  slumbering  flowers  in  Doctor 
Rappaccini's  garden,  whither  his  dreams  doubtless  led 
him.  Up  rose  the  sun  in  his  due  season,  and  flinging 
his  beams  upon  the  young  man's  eyelids,  awoke  him  to 
a  sense  of  pain.  When  thoroughly  aroused,  he  became 
sensible  of  a  burning  and  tingling  agony  in  his  hand  — 
in  his  right  hand  —  the  very\hand  which  Beatrice  had 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER        101 

grasped  in  her  own,  when  he  was  on  the  point  of  pluck- 
ing one  of  the  gemlike  flowers.      On  the  back  of  that .  / 
hand  there  was  now  a  purple  print,  like  that  of  four 
small  fingers,  and  the  likeness  of  a  slender  thumb  upon 
his  wrist.       JjV)Ltu 

Oh,  how  stubbornly  does  love  —  or  even  that  cunning 
Semblance  of  love  which  flourishes  in  the  imagination, 
but  strikes  no  depth  of  root  into  the  heart  —  how  stub- 
bornly does  it  hold  its  faith,  until  the  moment  come, 
when  it  is jl&nnfiLio  vanish  into  thin  mist!  Giovanni 
wrapt  a  handkerchief  about  his  hand,  and  wondered 
what  evil  thing  had  stung  him,  and  soon  forgot  his  pain 
in  a  revery  of  Beatrice. 

After  the  first  interview,  a  second  was  in  the  inevi- 
table course  of  what  we  call  fate.  A  third ;  a  fourth ; 
and  a  meeting  with  Beatrice  in  the  garden  was  no 
longer  an  incident  in  Giovanni's  daily  life,  but  the  whole 
space  in  which  he  might  be  said  to  live ;  for  the  antici- 
pation and  memory  of  that  ecstatic  hour  made  up  the  »/ 
remainder.  Nor  was  it  otherwise  with  the  daughter  of 
Rappaccini.  She  watched  for  the  youth's  appearance, 
and  flew  to  his  side  with  confidence  as  unreserved  as  if 
they  had  been  playmates  from  early  infancy  —  as  if 
they  were  such  playmates  still.  If,  by  any  unwonted 
chance,  he  failed  to  come  at  the  appointed  moment,  she 
stood  beneath  the  window,  and  sent  up  the  rich  sweet- 
ness of  her  tones  to  float  around  him  in  his  chamber, 
and  echo  and  reverberate  throughout  his  heart  —  "Gio- 
vanni !  Giovanni !  Why  tarriest  thou  ?  Come  down  !  " 
—  And  down  he  hastened  into  that  Eden  of  poisonous  V 
flowers. 

But,  with  all  this  intimate  familiarity,  there  was  still 
a  reserve  in  Beatrice's  demeanor,  so  rigidly  and  invari- 
ably sustained,  that  the  idea  of  infringing  it  scarcely 
occurred  to  his  imagination.  By  all  appreciable  signs, 
they  loved ;  they  had  looked  love,  with  eyes  that  con- 
veyed the  holy  secret  from  the  depths  of  one  soul  into 
the  depths  of  the  other,  as  if  it  were  too  sacred  to 
be  whispered  by  the  way ;  they  had  even  spoken  love, 
in  those  gushes  of  passion  when  their  spirits  darted 


102  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

forth  in  articulated  breath,  like  tongues  of  long-hidden 
flame ;  and  yet  there  had  been  no  seal  of  lips,  no  clasp 
of  hands,  nor  any  slightest  caress,  such  as  love  claims 
and  hallows.  He  had  never  touched  one  of  the  gleam- 
ing ringlets  of  her  hair;  her  garment  —  so  marked  was 
the  physical  barrier  between  them  —  had  never  been 
waved  against  him  by  a  breeze.  On  the  few  occasions 
when  Giovanni  had  seemed  tempted  to  overstep  the  limit, 
.  Beatrice  grew  so  sad,  so  stern,  and  withal  wore  such  a 
look  of  desolate  separation,  shuddermgvjat^itself,  that 
not  a  spoken  word  was  requisite  to  repel  him.  At  such 
times,  he  was  startled  at  the  horrible  suspicions  that 
rose,  monster-like,  out  of  the  caverns  of  his  heart,  and 
stared  him  in  the  face ;  his  love  grew  thin  and  faint  as 
the  morning-mist;  his  doubts  alone  had  substance. 
But  when  Beatrice's  face  brightened  again,  after  the 
momentary  shadow,  she  was  transformed  at  once  from 
the  mysterious,  questionable  being,  whom  he  had 
watched  with  so  much  awe  and  horror ;  she  was  now 
the  beautiful  and  unsophisticated  girl,  whom  he  felt 
that  his  spirit  knew  with  a  certainty  beyond  all  other 
knowledge. 

A  considerable  time  had  now  passed  since  Giovanni's 
last  meeting  with  Baglioni.  One  morning,  however,  he 
was  disagreeably  surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  professor, 
whom  he  had  scarcely  thought  of  for  whole  weeks,  and 
would  willingly  have  forgotten  still  longer.  Given  up, 
as  he  had  long  been,  to  a  pervading  excitement,  he 
could  tolerate  no  companions,  except  upon  condition  of 
their  perfect  sympathy  with  his  present  state  of  feeling. 
Such  sympathy  was  not  to  be  expected  from  Professor 
Baglioni. 

The  visitor  chatted  carelessly,  for  a  few  moments, 
about  the  gossip  of  the  city  and  the  University,  and 
then  took  up  another  topic. 

"  I  have  been  reading  an  old  classic  author  lately," 
said  he,  "  and  met  with  a  story  that  strangely  interested 
me.  Possibly  you  may  remember  it.  It  is  of  an  Ind- 
ian prince  who  sent  a  beautiful  woman  as  a  present 
to  Alexander  the  Great.  She  was  as  lovely  as  the 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER        103 

dawn,  and  gorgeous  as  the  sunset ;  but  what  especially 
distinguished  her  was  a  certain  rich  perfume  in  her 
breath  —  richer  than  a  garden  of  Persian  roses.  Alex- 
ander, as  was  natural  to  a  youthful  conqueror,  fell  in 
love  at  first  sight  with  this  magnificent  stranger.  But 
a  certain  sage  physician,  happening  to  be  present,  dis- 
covered a  terrible  secret  in  regard  to  her." 

"  And  what  was  that  ? "  asked  Giovanni,  turning  his 
eyes  downward  to  avoid  those  of  the  professor. 

"That  this  lovely  woman,"  continued  Baglioni,  with 
emphasis,  "  had  been  nourished  with  poisons  from  her 
birth  upward,  until  her  whole  nature  was  so  imbued  *  -v/ 
with  them,  that  she  herself  had  become  the  deadliest 
poison  in  existence/  Poison  was  her  element  of  life. 
With  that  rich  perfume  of  her  breath,  she  blasted  the 
very  air.  Her  love  would  have  been  poison !  —  her 
embrace  death  \\  Is  not  this  a  marvellous  tale  ?  " 

"  A  childish  fable,"  answered  Giovanni,  nervously 
starting  from  his  chair.  "  I  marvel  how  your  worship 
finds  time  to  read  such  nonsense,  among  your  graver 
studies." 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  the  professor,  looking  uneasily 
about  him,  "what  singular  fragrance  is  this  in  your 
apartment  ?  Is  it  the  perfume  of  your  gloves  ?  It  is 
faint,  but  delicious,  and  yet,  after  all,  by  no  means 
agreeable.  Were  I  to  breathe  it  long,  methinks  it 
would  make  me  ill.  It  is  like  the  breath  of  a  flower — 
but  I  see  no  flowers  in  the  chamber." 

"  Nor  are  there  any,"  replied  Giovanni,  who  had 
turned  pale  as  the  professor  spoke ;  "  nor,  I  think,  is 
there  any  fragrance,  except  in  your  worship's  imagi- 
nation. Odors,  being  a  sort  of  element  combined  of 
,the  sensual  and  the  spiritual,  are  apt  to  deceive  us  in 
this  manner.  The  recollection  of  a  perfume  —  the 
bare  idea  of  it  —  may  easily  be  mistaken  for  a  present 
reality." 

"  Aye ;  but  my  sober  imagination  does  not  often  play 
such  tricks,"  said  Baglioni;  "and  were  I  to  fancy  any 
kind  of  odor,  it  would  be  that  of  some  vile  apothecary 
drug,  wherewith  my  fingers  are  likely  enough  to  be 


io4  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 


imbued.  Our  worshipful  friend  Rappaccini,  as  I  have 
heard,  tinctures  his  medicaments  with  odors  richer  than 
those  of  Araby.  Doubtless,  likewise,  the  fair  and  learned 
Signora  Beatrice  would  minister  to  her  patients  with 
draughts  as  sweet  as  a  maiden's  breath.  But  woe  to 
him  that  sips  them  !  "  /Z^^O 

Giovanni's  face  evinced  many  contending  emotions. 
The  tone  in  which  the  professor  ajlnded^tq  the  pure 
and  lovely  daughter  of  Rappaccini  was  1l  iortUre  to  his 
soul  ;  and  yet,  the  intimation  of  a  view  of  her  character, 
opposite  to  his  own,  gave  instantaneous  distinctness  to 
a  thousand  dim  suspicions,  which  now  grinned  at  him 
like  so  many  demons.  But  he  strove  hard  to  quell 
them,  and  to  respond  to  Baglioni  with  a  true  lover's 
perfect  faith. 

"  Signer  Professor,"  said  he,  "  you  were  my  father's 
friend  —  perchance,  too,  it  is  your  purpose  to  act  a 
friendly  part  towards  his  son.  I  would  fain  feel  noth- 
ing towards  you  save  respect  and  deference.  But  I 
pray  you  to  observe,  Signer,  that  there  is  one  subject  on 
which  we  must  not  speak.  You  know  not  the  Signora 
Beatrice.  You  cannot,  therefore,  estimate  the  wrong  — 
the  blasphemy,  I  may  even  say  —  that  is  offered  to  her 
character  by  a  light  or  injurious  word." 

"Giovanni!  —  my  poor  Giovanni!"  answered  the 
professor,  with  a  calm  expression  of  pity,  "  I  know  this 
wretched  girl  far  better  than  yourself.  You  shall  hear 
the  truth  in  respect  to  the  poisoner  Rappaccini  and  his 
poisonous  daughter.  Yes  ;  poisonous  as  she  is  beauti- 
ful. Listen  ;  for  even  should  you  do  violence  to  my 
gray  hairs,  it  shall  not  silence  me.  That  old  fable  of 
the  Indian  woman  has  become  a  truth,  by  the  deep  and 
deadly  science  of  Rappaccini,  and  in  the  person  of  the 
lovely  Beatrice  !  " 

Giovanni  groaned  and  hid  his  face. 

"  Her  father,"  continued  Baglioni,  "  was  not  restrained 
by  natural  affection  from  offering  up  his  child,  in  this 
horrible  manner,  as  the  victim  of  his  insane  zea.1  for 
science.  For  —  let  us  'do  him  justice  —  he  is  as  true  a 
man  of  science  as  ever  distilled  his  own  heart  in  an 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER        105 

alembic.  What,  then,  will  be  your  fate?  Beyond  a 
doubt,  you  are  selected  as  the  material  of  some  new 
experiment.  Perhaps  the  result  is  to  be  death  —  per- 
haps a  fate  more  awful  still !  Rappaccini,  with  what  he 
calls  the  interest  of  science  before  his  eyes,  will  hesitate 
at  nothing." 

"  It  is  a  dream  ! "  muttered  Giovanni  to  himself, 
"  surely  it  is  a  dream  !  " 

"  But,"  resumed  the  professor,  "  be  of  good  cheer, 
son  of  my  friend!  It  is  not  yet  too  late  for  the  rescue. 
Possibly,  we  may  even  succeed  in  bringing  back  this 
miserable  child  within  the  limits  of  ordinary  nature, 
from  which  her  father's  madness  has  estranged  her. 
Behold  this  little  silver  vasej  It  was  wrought  by  the 
hands  of  the  renowned  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  is  well 
worthy  to  be  a  love-gift  to  the  fairest  dame  in  Italy.  But 
its  contents  are  invaluable.  One  little  sip  of  this  antidote  * 
would  have  rendered  the  most  virulent  poisons  of  the  * 

Borgias  iiffiodiJous.     Doubt  not  that  it  will  be  as  effica- - 

cious  against  those  of    Rappaccini.     Besto\v~T:he 

and  the  precious  liquid  within  it,  on  your  Beatrice,  and 

hopefully  await  the  result." 

Baglioni  laid  a  small,  exquisitely  wrought  silver  phial 
on  the  table,  and  withdrew,  leaving  what  he  had  said  to 
produce  its  effect  upon  the  young  man's  mind. 

"  We  will  thwart  Rappaccini  yet !  "  thought  he, 
chuckling  to  himself,  as  he  descended  the  stairs.  "  But, 

let  us  confess  the  truth  of  him,  he  is  a  wonderful  man  ! .^  g 

—  a  wonderful  man,  indeed  !  A  vile~empiric,  however, 
in  his  practice,  and  therefore  not  to  be  tolerated  by 
those  who  respect  the  good  old  rules  of  the  medical 
profession ! " 

Throughout  Giovanni's  whole  acquaintance  with  Bea- 
trice, he  had  occasionally,  as  we  have  said,  been  haunted 
by  dark  surmises  as  to  her  character.  Yet,  so  thor- 
oughly had  she  made  herself  felt  by  him  as  a  simple, 
natural,  most  affectionate  and  guileless  creature,  that 
the  image  now  held  up  by  Professor  Baglioni  looked  as 
strange  and  incredible  as  if  it  were  not  in  accordance 
with  his  own  original  conception.  True,  there  were 


io6  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

ugly  recollections  connected  with  his  first  glimpses  of 
the  beautiful  girl ;  he  could  not  quite  forget  the  bouquet 
that  withered  in  her  grasp,  and  the  insect  that  perished 
amid  the  sunny  air,  by  no  ostensible  agency  save  the 
fragrance  of  her  breath.  These  incidents,  however, 
dissolving  in  the  pure  light  of  her  character,  had  no 
longer  the  efficacy  of  facts,  but  were  acknowledged  as 
mistaken  fantasies,  by  whatever  testimony  of  the  senses 
they  might  appear  to  be  substantiated.  There  is  some- 
thing truer,  and  more  real,  than  what  we  can  see  with 
the  eyes  and  touch  with  the  finger.  On  such  better 
evidence  had  Giovanni  founded  his  confidence  in  Bea- 
trice, though  rather  by  the  necessary  force  of  her  high 
attributes,  than  by  any  deep  and  generous  faith  on  his 
part.  But  now  his  spirit  was  incapable  of  sustaining 
itself  at  the  height  to  which  the  early  enthusiasm  of 
passion  had  exalted  it ;  he  fell  down,  grovelling  among 
earthly  doubts,  and  defiled  therewith  the  pure  white- 
ness of  Beatrice's  image.  Not  that  he  gave  her  up ; 
he  did  but  distrust.  He  resolved  to  institute  some  de- 
cisive test  that  should  satisfy  him,  once  for  all,  whether 
there  were  those  dreadful  peculiarities  in  her  physical 
nature,  which  could  not  be  supposed  to  exist  without 
some  corresponding  monstrosity  of  soul.  His  eyes, 
gazing  down  afar,  might  have  deceived  him  as  to  the 
lizard,  the  insect,  and  the  flowers.  But  if  he  could  wit- 
ness, at  the  distance  of  a  few  paces,  the  sudden  blight 
of  one  fresh  and  healthful  flower  in  Beatrice's  hand, 
there  would  be  room  for  no  further  question.  With 
this  idea,  he  hastened  to  the  florist's,  and  purchased  a 
bouquet  that  was  still  gemmed  with  the  morning  dew- 
drops. 

It  was  now  the  customary  hour  of  his  daily  interview 
with  Beatrice.  Before  descending  into  the  garden, 
Giovanni  failed  not  to  look  at  his  figure  in  the  mirror ; 
a  vanity  to  be  expected  in  a  beautiful  young  man,  yet, 
as  displaying  itself  at  that  troubled  and  feverish  mo- 
ment, the  token  of  a  certain  shallowness  of  feeling  and 
insincerity  of  character.  He  did  gaze,  however,  and 
said  to  himself,  that  his  features  had  never  before  pos- 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER        107 

sessed  so  rich  a  grace,  nor  his  eyes  such  vivacity, 
nor  his  cheeks  so  warm  a  hue  of  superabundant 
life.  yUtem 

" Ar  least,"  thought  he,  "her  poison  has  not  yet 
insinuated  itself  into  my  system.  I  am  no  flower  to 
perish  in  her  grasp  !  " 

With  that  thought  he  turned  his  eyes  on  the  bou- 
quet, which  he  had  never  once  laid  aside  from  his 
hand.  A  thrill  of  indefinable  horror  shot  through 
his  frame,  on  perceiving  that  ihose  dewy  flowers 
atere  already  beginning  to  droop ;  they  wore  the 
aspect  of  things  that  had  been  fresh  and  lovely,  yes- 
terday. Giovanni  grew  white  as  marble,  and  stood 
motionless  before  the  mirror,  staring  at  his  own  re- 
flection there,  as  at  the  likeness  of  something  fright- 
ful. He  remembered  Baglioni's  remark  about  the 
fragrance  that  seemed  to  pervade  the  chamber.  It 
must  have  been  the  poison  in  his  breath !  Then  he 
shuddered  —  shuddered  at  himself !  Recovering  from 
his  stupor,  he  began  to  watch,  with  curious  eye,  a 
spider  that  was  busily  at  work,  hanging  its  web  from 
the  antique  cornice  of  the  apartment,  crossing  and 
recrossing  the  artful  system  of  interwoven  lines,  as 
vigorous  and  active  a  spider  as  ever  dangled  from  an 
old  ceiling.  Giovanni  bent  towards  the  insect,  and 
emitted  a  deep,  long  breath.  The  spider  suddenly 
ceased  its  toil;  the  web  vibrated  with  a  tremor  origi- 
nating in  the  body  of  the  small  artisan.  Again  Gio- 
vanni sent  forth  a  breath,  deeper,  longer,  and  imbued 
with  a  venomous  feeling  out  of  his  heart ;  he  knew 
not  whether  he  were  wicked  or  only  desperate.  The 
spider  made  a  c^nvmsrve  gripe  with  his  limbs,  and 
hung  dead  across  the  window. 

"Accursed !  accursed  !  "  muttered  Giovanni,  address- 
ing himself.  "  Hast  thou  grown  so  poisonous,  that  this 
deadly  insect  perishes  by  thy  breath  ? " 

At  that  moment,  a  rich,  sweet  voice  came  floating  up 
from  the  garden  :  — 

"Giovanni!  Giovanni!  It  is  past  the  hour!  Why 
tarriest  thou  ?  Come  down !  " 


io8  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  Yes,"  muttered  Giovanni  again.  "  She  is  the.  only 
being  whom  my  breath  may  not  slay !  Would  that  it 
might !  " 

He  rushed  down,  and  in  an  instant  was  standing 
before  the  bright  and  loving  eyes  of  Beatrice.  A 
,^  moment  ago,  his  wrath  and  despair  had  been  so  fierce 
'  that  he  could  have  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to 
v  wither  her  by  a  glance.  But,  with  her  actual  presence, 
there  came  influences  which  had  too  real  an  existence 
to  be  at  once  shaken  off;  recollections  of  the  delicate 
and  benign  power  of  her  feminine  nature,  which  had  so 
often  enveloped  him  in  a  religious  calm ;  recollections 
of  many  a  holy  and  passionate  outgush  of  her  heart, 
when  the  pure  fountain  had  been  unsealed  from  its 
depths,  and  made  visible  in  its  transparency  to  his 
mental  eye ;  recollections  which,  had  Giovanni  known 
how  to  estimate  them,  would  have  assured  him  that 
all  this  ugly  mystery  was  but  an  earthly  illusion,  and 
that,  whatever  mist  of  evil  might  seem  to  have  gathered 
over  her,  the  real  Beatrice  was  a  heavenly  angel. 
Incapable  as  he  was  of  such  high  faith,  still  her  pres- 
ence had  not  utterly  lost  its  magic.  Giovanni's  rage 
was  quelled  into  an  aspect  of  sullen  insensibility. 
Beatrice,  with  a  quick  spiritual  sense,  immediately 
felt  that  there  was  a  gulf  of  blackness  .between  them, 
which  neither  he  nor  she  could  pass.  iTiey  walked 
on  together,  sad  and  silent,  and  came  thus  to  the 
marble  fountain,  and  to  its  pool  of  water  on  the  ground, 
in  the  midst  of  which  grew  the  shrub  that  bore  gem- 
like  blossoms.  Giovanni  was  affrighted  at  the  eager 
enjoyment  —  the  appetite,  as  it  were  —  with  which  he 
found  himself  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 

"  Beatrice,"  asked  he,  abruptly,  "  whence  came  this 
shrub  ? " 

"  My  father  created  it,"  answered  she,  with  simplicity. 

"  Created  it !  created  it !  "  repeated  Giovanni.  "  What 
mean  you,  Beatrice  ?  " 

"He  is  a  man  fearfully  acquainted  with  the  secrets 
of  nature,"  replied  Beatrice;  "and,  at  the  hour  when 
I  first  drew  breath,  this  plant  sprang  from  the  soil, 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER        109 

the  offspring  of  his  science,  of  his  intellect,  while  I 
was  but  his  earthly  child.  Approach  it  not ! "  con- 
tinued she,  observing  with  terror  that  Giovanni  was 
drawing  nearer  to  the  shrub.  "It  has  qualities  that 
you  little  dream  of.  But  I,  dearest  Giovanni,  —  I 
grew  up  and  blossomed  with  the  plant,  and  was  nour- 
ished with  its  breath.  It.  was  my  sister,  and  I  loved 
it  with  a  human  affection:  for  —  alas!  hast  thou  not 
suspected  it?  there  jy^s  an  awful  doom." 

Here  Giovanni  frowried  so  darkly  upon  her  that 
Beatrice  paused  and  trembled.  But  her  faith  in  his 
tenderness  reassured  her,  and  made^her  blush  that 
she  had  doubted  for  an  instant.  /^3rT'$£; 

"  There  was  an  awful  doom,"  she  continued,  — 
"  the  effect  of  my  father's  fatal  love  of  science  —  which 
estranged  me  from  all  society  of  my  kind.  Until 
Heaven  sent  thee,  dearest  Giovanni,  oh !  how  lonely 
was  thy  jpoor  Beatrice  !  " 

"  Was  it  a  hard  doom  ? "  asked  Giovanni,  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  her. ,<?)3»\-5s'»^ 

"Only  of  late  have  I  known  how  hard  it  was," 
answered  she,  tenderly.  "  Oh,  yes ;  but  my  heart  was 
torpid,  and  therefore  quiet." 

Giovanni's  rage  broke  forth  from  his  sullen  gloom 
like  a  lightning-flash  out  of  a  dark  cloud. 

"  Accursed  one ! "  cried  he,  with  venomous  scorn 
and  anger.  "  And  finding  thy  solitude  wearisome, 
thou  hast  severed  me,  likewise,  from  all  the  warmth  of 
life,  and  enticed  me  into  thy  region  of  unspeakable 
horror!" 

"  Giovanni !  "  exclaimed  Beatrice,  turning  her  large 
bright  eyes  upon  his  face.  The  force  of  his  words 
had  not  found  its  way  into  her  mind ;  she  was  merely 
thunder-struck. 

"  Yes,  poisonous  thing ! "  repeated  Giovanni,  be- 
side himself  with  passion.  "  Thou  hast  done  it ! 
Thou  hast  blasted  me !  Thou  hast  filled  my  veins 
with  poison  !  Thou  hast  made  me  as  hateful,  as  ugly, 
as  loathsome  and  deadly  a  creature  as  thyself,  —  a 
world's  wonder  of  hideous  monstrosity!  Now  —  if 


no  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

,  our  breath  be  happily  as  fatal  to  ourselves  as  to  all 
2<i?t  others  —  let  us  join  our  lips  in  one  kiss  of  unutterable 
^^hatred,  and  so  die  !  " 

"  What  has  befallen  me  ?  "  murmured  Beatrice,  with  a 
low  moan  out  of  her  heart.  "  Holy  Virgin,  pity  me,  a 
poor  heart-broken  child  \"s'< 

"  Thou  !  Dost  th>xfpray  ?  "  cried  Giovanni,  still 
with  the  same  nerraish  scorn.  "Thy  very  prayers, 
as  they  come  from  thy  lips,  taint  the  atmosphere  with 
death.  Yes,  yes;  let  us  pray!  Let  us  to  church, 
and  dip  our  fingers  in  the  holy  water  at  the  portal ! 
They  that  come  after  us  will  perish  as  by  a  pestilence. 
Let  us  sign  crosses  in  the  air !  It  will  be  scattering 
curses  abroad  in  the  likeness  of  holy  symbols !  " 

"Giovanni,"  said  Beatrice,  calmly,  for  her  grief  was 
beyond  passion,  "why  dost  thou  join  thyself  with 
me  thus  in  those  terrible  words  ?  I,  it  is  true,  am 
the  horrible  thing  thou  namest  me.  But  thou!  — 
what  hast  thou  to  do,  save,  with  one  other  shudder  at 
my  hideous  misery,  to  go  forth  out  of  the  garden  and 
^  mingle  with  thy  race,  and  forget  that  there  ever 
crawled  on  earth  such  a  monster  as  poor  Beatrice  ? " 

"Dost  thou  pretend  ignorance?"  asked  Giovanni, 
scowling  upon  her.  "  Behold !  This  power  have  I 
gained  from  the  pure  daughter  of  Rappaccini !  " 

There  was  a  swarm  of  summer-insects  flitting  through 
the  air,  in  search  of  the  food  promised  by  the  flower- 
odors  of  the  fatal  garden.  They  circled  round  Gio- 
vanni's head,  and  were  evidently  attracted  towards  him 
by  the  same  influence  which  had  drawn  them,  for  an 
instant,  within  the  sphere  of  several  of  the  shrubs.  He 
sent  forth  a  breath  among  them,  and  smiled  bitterly  at 
Beatrice,  as  at  least  a  score  of  the  insects  fell  dead  upon 
the  ground. 

"  I  see  it !  I  see  it !  "  shrieked  Beatrice.  "  It  is  my 
father's  fatal  science !  No,  no,  Giovanni ;  it  was  not 
I !  Never,  never !  I  dreamed  only  to  love  thee,  and 
be  with  thee  a  little  time,  and  so  to  let  thee  pass  away, 
leaving  but  thine  image  in  mine  heart.  For,  Giovanni, 
• — believe  it  —  though  my  body  be  nourished  with 


RAPPACCINI'S   DAUGHTER        in 

poison,  my  spirit  is  God's  creature,  and  craves  love  as 
its  daily  food.  But  my  father  !  —  he  has  united  us  in 
this  fearful  sympathy.  Yes  ;  spurn  me  !  —  tread  upon 
me  !  —  kill  me  !  Oh,  what  is  death,  after  such  words  as 
thine  ?  But  it  was  not  I !  Not  for  a  world  of  bliss 
would  I  have  done  it !  " 

Giovanni's  passion  had  exhausted  itself  in  its  outburst 
from  his  lips.  There  now  came  across  him  a  sense, 
mournful,  and  not  without  tenderness,  of  the  intimate 
and  peculiar  relationship  between  Beatrice  and  himself. 
They  stood,  as  it  were,  in  an  utter  solitude,  which  would 
be  made  none  the  less  solitary  by  the  densest  throng  of 
human  life.  Ought  not,  then,  the  desert  of  humanity 
around  them  to  press  this  insulated  pair  closer  together  ? 
If  they  should  be  cruel  to  one  another,  who  was  there 
to  be  kind  to  them  ?  Besides,  thought  Giovanni,  might 
there  not  still  be  a  hope  of  his  returning  within  the 
limits  of  ordinary  nature,  and  leading  Beatrice  —  the 
redeemed  Beatrice  —  by  the  hand  ?  Oh,  weak,  and  self- 
ish, and  unworthy  spirit,  that  could  dream  of  an  earthly 
union  and  earthly  happiness  as  possible,  after  such  deep 
love  had  been  so  bitterly  wronged  as  was  Beatrice's  love 
by  Giovanni's  blighting  words  !  No,  no  ;  there  could  be 
no  such  hope.  She  must  pass  heavily,  with  that  broken 
heart,  across  the  borders  —  she  must  bathe  her  hurts  in 
some  fount  of  Paradise,  and  forget  her  grief  in  the  light 
of  immortality  —  and  there  be  well ! 

But  Giovanni  did  not  know  it. 

"  Dear  Beatrice,"  said  he,  approaching  her,  while  she 
shrank  away,  as  always  at  his  approach,  but  now  with 
a  different  impulse  —  "  dearest  Beatrice,  our  fate  is  not 
yet  so  desperate.  Behold !  There  is  a  medicine,  po- 
tent, as  a  wise  physician  has  assured  me,  and  almost 
divine  in  its  efficacy.  It  is  composed  of  ingredients  the 
most  opposite  to  those  by  which  thy  awful  father  has 
brought  this  calamity  upon  thee  and  me.  It  is  dis- 
tilled of  blessed  herbs.  Shall  we  not  quaff  it  together, 
and  thus  be  purified  from  evil  ?  " 

"  Give  it  me  !  "  said  Beatrice,  extending  her  hand  to 
receive  the  little  silver  phial  which  Giovanni  took  from 


ii2  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

his  bosom.  She  added,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis,  "  I 
will  drink  —  but  do  thou  await  the  result." 

She  put  Baglioni's  antidote  to  her  lips ;  and,  at  the 
same  moment,  the  figure  of  Rappaccini  emerged  from 
the  portal,  and  came  slowly  towards  the  marble  foun- 
tain. As  he  drew  near,  the  pale  man  of  science  seemed 
to  gaze  with  a  triumphant  expression  at  the  beautiful 
youth  and  maiden,  as  might  an  artist  who  should  spend 
his  life  in  achieving  a  picture  or  a  group  of  statuary, 
and  finally  be  satisfied  with  his  success.  He  paused  — 
his  bent  form  grew  erect  with  conscious  power,  he 
spread  out  his  hand  over  them,  in  the  attitude  of  a 
father  imploring  a  blessing  upon  his  children.  But 
those  were  the  same  hands  that  had  thrown  poison  into 
the  stream  of  their  lives !  Giovanni  trembled.  Beatrice 
shuddered  very  nervously,  and  pressed  her  hand  upon 
her  heart.  .y^^c  ^ 

"My  daughter,"  said  Rappaccini,  "thou  art  no 
longer  lonely  in  the  world !  Pluck  one  of  those  precious 
gems  from  thy^ sister  shrub,  and  bid  thy  bridegroom 
wear  it  in  his  bos'om.  It  will  not  harm  him  now  !  My 
science,  and  the  sympathy  between  thee  and  him,  have 
~scFwrought  within  his  system,  that  he  now  stands  apart 
from  common  men,  as  thou  dost,  daughter  of  my  pride 
and  triumph,  from  ordinary  women.  Pass  on,  then, 
through  the  world,  most  dear  to  one  another,  and  dread- 
ful to  all  besides  !  " 

"  My  father,"  said  Beatrice,  feebly —  and  still,  as  she 
spoke,  she  kept  her  hand  upon  her  heart  —  "  wherefore 
didst  thou  inflict  this  miserable  doom  upon  thy  child  ? " 

"Miserable!"  exclaimed  Rappaccini.  "What  mean 
you,  foolish  girl  ?  Dost  thou  deem  it  misery  to  be  en- 
dowed with  marvellous  gifts,  against  which  no  power 
nor^strength  could  avail  an  enemy  ?  Misery,  to  be  able 
to  q\iell  the  mightiest  with  a  breath?  Misery,  to  be 
as  terrible  as  thou  art  beautiful  ?  Wouldst  thou,  then, 
have  preferred  the  condition  of  a  weak  woman,  exposed 
to  all  evil,  and  capable  of  none  ? " 

"  I  would  fain  have  been  loved,  not  feared,"  mur- 
mured Beatrice,  sinking  down  upon  the  ground.  "  But 


RAPPACCINI'S    DAUGHTER        113 

now  it  matters  not ;  I  am  going,  father,  where  the  evil, 
which  thou  hast  striven  to  mingle  with  my /being,  will 
pass  away  like  a  dream  —  like  the  fragrajtfce  of  these 
poisonous  flowers,  which  will  no  longer  taint  my  breath 
among  the  flowers  of  Eden.  Farewell,  Giovanni !  Thy 
words  of  hatred  are  like  lead  within  my  heart — but 
they,  too,  will  fall  away  as  I  ascend.  Oh,  was  there 
not,  from  the  first,  more  poison  in  thy  nature  than  in 
mine  ? " 

To  Beatrice  —  so  radically  had  her  earthly  part  been 
wrought  upon  by  Rappaccini's  skill  —  as  poison  had 
been  life,  so  the  powerful  antidote  was  death.  And 
thus  the  poor  victim  of  man's  ingenuity  and  of  thwarted 
nature,  and  of  the  fatality  that  attends  all  such  efforts 
of  perverted  wisdom,  perished  there^/at  the  feet  of  her 
father  and  Giovanni.  Just  at  that  moment,  Professor 
Pietro  Baglioni  looked  forth  from  the  window,  and 
called  loudly,  in  a  tone  of  triumph  mixed  with  horror,  to 
the  thunder-stricken  man  of  science  :  — 

"  Rappaccini !  Rappaccini !  And  is  this  the  upsliot 
of  your  experiment  ? " 

-^ 

o^YY~     >v 

tt^ 


MRS.    BULLFROG 

IT  makes  me  melancholy  to  see  how  like  fools  some 
very  sensible  people  act,  in  the  matter  of  choosing 
wives.  They  perplex  their  judgments  by  a  most  undue 
attention  to  little  niceties  of  personal  appearance,  habits, 
disposition,  and  other  trifles,  which  concern  nobody  but 
the  lady  herself.  An  unhappy  gentleman,  resolving  to 
wed  nothing  short  of  perfection,  keeps  his  heart  and 
hand  till  both  get  so  old  and  withered,  that  no  tolerable 
woman  will  accept  them.  —  Now,  this  is  the  very  height 
of  absurdity.  A  kind  Providence  has  so  skilfully 
adapted  sex  to  sex,  and  the  mass  of  individuals  to  each 
other,  that,  with  certain  obvious  exceptions,  any  male 
and  female  may  be  moderately  happy  in  the  married 
state.  The  true  rule  is,  to  ascertain  that  the  match  is 
fundamentally  a  good  one,  and  then  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  all  minor  objections,  should  there  be  such, 
will  vanish,  if  you  let  them  alone.  Only  put  yourself 
beyond  hazard,  as  to  the  real  basis  of  matrimonial  bliss, 
and  it  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined  what  miracles,  in  the 
way  of  reconciling  smaller  incongruities,  connubial  love 
will  effect. 

For  my  own  part,  I  freely  confess,  that,  in  my 
bachelorship,  I  was  precisely  such  an  over-curious 
simpleton,  as  I  now  advise  the  reader  not  to  be.  My 
early  habits  had  gifted  me  with  a  feminine  sensibility, 
and  too  exquisite  refinement.  I  was  the  accomplished 
graduate  of  a  dry-goods  store,  where,  by  dint  of  minis- 
tering to  the  whims  of  fine  ladies,  and  suiting  silken 
hose  to  delicate  limbs,  and  handling  satins,  ribbons, 
chintzes,  calicoes,  tapes,  gauze,  and  cambric  needles,  I 
grew  up  a  very  ladylike  sort  of  a  gentleman.  It  is  not 
assuming  too  much  to  affirm,  that  the  ladies  themselves 
were  hardly  so  ladylike  as  Thomas  Bullfrog.  So  pain- 
114 


MRS.  BULLFROG  115 

fully  acute  was  my  sense  of  female  imperfection,  and 
such  varied  excellence  did  I  require  in  the  woman  whom 
I  could  love,  that  there  was  an  awful  risk  of  my  getting 
no  wife  at  all,  or  of  being  driven  to  perpetrate  matri- 
mony with  my  own  image  in  the  looking-glass.  Besides 
the  fundamental  principle,  already  hinted  at,  I  de- 
manded the  fresh  bloom  of  youth,  pearly  teeth,  glossy 
ringlets,  and  the  whole  list  of  lovely  items,  with  the 
utmost  delicacy  of  habits  and  sentiments,  a  silken 
texture  of  mind,  and,  above  all,  a  virgin  heart.  In  a 
word,  if  a  young  angel,  just  from  Paradise,  yet  dressed 
in  earthly  fashion,  had  come  and  offered  me  her  hand, 
it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  I  should  have  taken  it. 
There  was  every  chance  of  my  becoming  a  most  miser- 
able old  bachelor,  when,  by  the  best  luck  in  the  world, 
I  made  a  journey  into  another  State,  and  was  smitten 
by,  and  smote  again,  and  wooed,  won,  and  married  the 
present  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  all  in  the  space  of  a  fortnight. 
Owing  to  these  extempore  measures,  I  not  only  gave  my 
bride  credit  for  certain  perfections,  which  have  not  as 
yet  come  to  light,  but  also  overlooked  a  few  trifling 
defects,  which,  however,  glimmered  on  my  perception 
long  before  the  close  of  the  honey-moon.  Yet,  as  there 
was  no  mistake  about  the  fundamental  principle  afore- 
said, I  soon  learned,  as  will  be  seen,  to  estimate  Mrs. 
Bullfrog's  deficiencies  and  superfluities  at  exactly  their 
proper  value. 

The  same  morning  that  Mrs.  Bullfrog  and  I  came 
together  as  a  unit,  we  took  two  seats  in  the  stage-coach, 
and  began  our  journey  towards  my  place  of  business. 
There  being  no  other  passengers,  we  were  as  much 
alone,  and  as  free  to  give  vent  to  our  raptures,  as  if  I 
had  hired  a  hack  for  the  matrimonial  jaunt.  My  bride 
looked  charming^,  in  a  green  silk  calash,  and  riding- 
habit  of  pelisse  cloth,  and  whenever  her  red  lips  parted 
with  a  smile,  each  tooth  appeared  like  an  inestimable 
pearl.  Such  was  my  passionate  warmth,  that  —  we  had 
rattled  out  of  the  village,  gentle  reader,  and  were  lonely 
as  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise  —  I  plead  guilty  to  no  less 
freedom  than  a  kiss  !  — The  gentle  eye  of  Mrs.  Bullfrog 


n6  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

scarcely  rebuked  me  for  the  profanation.  Emboldened 
by  her  indulgence,  I  threw  back  the  calash  from  her 
polished  brow,  and  suffered  my  fingers,  white  and  deli- 
cate as  her  own,  to  stray  among  those  dark  and  glossy 
curls,  which  realized  my  day-dreams  of  rich  hair. 

"My  love,"  said  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  tenderly,  "you  will 
disarrange  my  curls." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  sweet  Laura !  "  replied  I,  still  playing 
with  the  glossy  ringlet.  "  Even  your  fair  hand  could 
not  manage  a  curl  more  delicately  than  mine.  —  I  pro- 
pose myself  the  pleasure  of  doing  up  your  hair  in  papers, 
every  evening,  at  the  same  time  with  my  own." 

"Mr.  Bullfrog,"  repeated  she,  "you  must  not  dis- 
arrange my  curls." 

This  was  spoken  in  a  more  decided  tone  than  I  had 
happened  to  hear,  until  then,  from  my  gentlest  of  all 
gentle  brides.  At  the  same  time,  she  put  up  her  hand 
and  took  mine  prisoner,  but  merely  drew  it  away  from 
the  forbidden  ringlet,  and  then  immediately  released  it. 
Now,  I  am  a  fidgety  little  man,  and  always  love  to  have 
something  in  my  fingers ;  so  that,  being  debarred  from 
my  wife's  curls,  I  looked  about  me  for  any  other  play- 
thing. On  the  front  seat  of  the  coach,  there  was  one 
of  those  small  baskets  in  which  travelling  ladies,  who 
are  too  delicate  to  appear  at  a  public  table,  generally 
carry  a  supply  of  ginger-bread,  biscuits  and  cheese,  cold 
ham,  and  other  light  refreshments,  merely  to  sustain 
nature  to  the  journey's  end.  Such  airy  diet  will  some- 
times keep  them  in  pretty  good  flesh,  for  a  week  to- 
gether. Laying  hold  of  this  same  little  basket,  I  thrust 
my  hand  under  the  newspaper,  with  which  it  was  care- 
fully covered. 

"  What 's  this,  my  dear  ? "  cried  I ;  for  the  black  neck 
of  a  bottle  had  popped  out  of  the  basket. 

"A  bottle  of  Kalydor,  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  rny  wife, 
coolly  taking  the  basket  from  my  hands,  and  replacing 
it  on  the  front  seat. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  doubting  my  wife's  word ; 
but  I  never  knew  genuine  Kalydor,  such  as  I  use  for 
my  own  complexion,  to  smell  so  much  like  cherry-brandy. 


MRS.  BULLFROG  117 

I  was  about  to  express  my  fears  that  the  lotion  would 
injure  her  skin,  when  an  accident  occurred,  which 
threatened  more  than  a  skin-deep  injury.  Our  Jehu 
had  carelessly  driven  over  a  heap  of  gravel,  and  fairly 
capsized  the  coach,  with  the  wheels  in  the  air,  and  our 
heels  where  our  heads  should  have  been.  What  became 
of  my  wits,  I  cannot  imagine ;  they  have  always  had  a 
perverse  trick  of  deserting  me,  just  when  they  were 
most  needed ;  but  so  it  chanced,  that,  in  the  confusion 
of  our  overthrow,  I  quite  forgot  that  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Bullfrog  in  the  world.  Like  many  men's  wives,  the 
good  lady  served  her  husband  as  a  stepping-stone.  I 
had  scrambled  out  of  the  coach,  and  was  instinctively 
settling  my  cravat,  when  somebody  brushed  roughly  by 
me,  and  I  heard  a  smart  thwack  upon  the  coach-man's 
ear. 

"  Take  that,  you  villain  ! "  cried  a  strange,  hoarse 
voice.  "  You  have  ruined  me,  you  blackguard  !  I  shall 
never  be  the  woman  I  have  been !  " 

And  then  came  a  second  thwack,  aimed  at  the 
driver's  other  ear,  but  which  missed  it,  and  hit  him 
on  the  nose,  causing  a  terrible  effusion  of  blood. 
Now,  who,  or  what  fearful  apparition,  was  inflicting 
this  punishment  on  the  poor  fellow,  remained  an  im- 
penetrable mystery  to  me.  The  blows  were  given  by 
a  person  of  grisly  aspect,  with  a  head  almost  bald, 
and  sunken  cheeks,  apparently  of  the  feminine  gender, 
though  hardly  to  be  classed  in  the  gentler  sex.  There 
being  no  teeth  to  modulate  the  voice,  it  had  a  mum- 
bled fierceness,  not  passionate,  but  stern,  which  abso- 
lutely made  me  quiver  like  calves-foot  jelly.  Who 
could  the  phantom  be  ?  The  most  awful  circumstance 
of  the  affair  is  yet  to  be  told ;  for  this  ogre,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  had  a  riding-habit  like  Mrs.  Bullfrog's, 
and  also  a  green  silk  calash,  dangling  down  her  back 
by  the  strings.  In  my  terror  and  turmoil  of  mind, 
I  could  imagine  nothing  less,  than  that  the  Old  Nick, 
at  the  moment  of  our  overturn,  had  annihilated  my 
wife  and  jumped  into  her  petticoats.  This  idea 
seemed  the  more  probable,  since  I  could  nowhere 


n8  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

perceive  Mrs.  Bullfrog  alive,  nor,  though  I  looked 
very  sharp  about  the  coach,  could  I  detect  any  traces 
of  that  beloved  woman's  dead  body.  There  would  have 
been  a  comfort  in  giving  her  Christian  burial ! 

"  Come,  sir,  bestir  yourself !  Help  this  rascal  to  set 
up  the  coach,"  said  the  hobgoblin  to  me ;  then,  with  a 
terrific  screech  to  three  countrymen,  at  a  distance  — 
"  Here,  you  fellows,  ain't  you  ashamed  to  stand  off,  when 
a  poor  woman  is  in  distress  ? " 

The  countrymen,  instead  of  fleeing  for  their  lives, 
came  running  at  full  speed,  and  laid  hold  of  the  topsy- 
turvy coach.  I,  also,  though  a  small-sized  man,  went 
to  work  like  a  son  of  Anak.  The  coachman,  too, 
with  the  blood  still  streaming  from  his  nose,  tugged 
and  toiled  most  manfully,  dreading,  doubtless,  that 
the  next  blow  might  break  his  head.  And  yet,  be- 
mauled  as  the  poor  fellow  had  been,  he  seemed  to 
glance  at  me  with  an  eye  of  pity,  as  if  my  case  were 
more  deplorable  than  his.  But  I  cherished  a  hope 
that  all  would  turn  out  a  dream,  and  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity, as  we  raised  the  coach,  to  jam  two  of  my 
fingers  under  the  wheel,  trusting  that  the  pain  would 
awaken  me. 

"  Why,  here  we  are  all  to  rights  again !  "  exclaimed 
a  sweet  voice,  behind.  "  Thank  you  for  your  assist- 
ance, gentlemen.  My  dear  Mr.  Bullfrog,  how  you 
perspire  !  Do  let  me  wipe  your  face.  Don't  take  this 
little  accident  too  much  to  heart,  good  driver.  We 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  none  of  our  necks  are 
broken ! " 

"  We  might  have  spared  one  neck  out  of  the  three," 
muttered  the  driver,  rubbing  his  ear  and  pulling  his 
nose,  to  ascertain  whether  he  had  been  cuffed  or  not. 
—  "  Why,  the  woman  's  a  witch  !  " 

I  fear  that  the  reader  will  not  believe,  yet  it  is  posi- 
tively a  fact,  that  there  stood  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  with  her 
glossy  ringlets  curling  on  her  brow,  and  two  rows  of 
orient  pearls  gleaming  between  her  parted  lips,  which 
wore  a  most  angelic  smile.  She  had  regained  her 
riding-habit  and  calash  from  the  grisly  phantom,  and 


MRS.  BULLFROG  119 

was,  in  all  respects,  the  fovely  woman  who  had  been 
sitting  by  my  side  at  the  instant  of  our  overturn.  How 
she  had  happened  to  disappear,  and  who  had  supplied 
her  place,  and  whence  she  did  now  return,  were  prob- 
lems too  knotty  for  me  to  solve.  There  stood  my  wife. 
That  was  the  one  thing  certain  among  a  heap  of  mys- 
teries. Nothing  remained,  but  to  help  her  into  the 
coach,  and  plod  on,  through  the  journey  of  the  day  and 
the  journey  of  life,  as  comfortably  as  we  could.  As  the 
driver  closed  the  door  upon  us,  I  heard  him  whisper  to 
the  three  countrymen  :  — 

"  How  do  you  suppose  a  fellow  feels,  shut  up  in  the 
cage  with  a  she-tiger  ?  " 

Of  course,  this  query  could  have  no  reference  to  my 
situation.  Yet,  unreasonable  as  it  may  appear,  I  con- 
fess that  my  feelings  were  not  altogether  so  ecstatic  as 
when  I  first  called  Mrs.  Bullfrog  mine.  True,  she  was 
a  sweet  woman,  and  an  angel  of  a  wife ;  but  what  if  a 
gorgon  should  return,  amid  the  transports  of  our  con- 
nubial bliss,  and  take  the  angel's  place !  I  recollected 
the  tale  of  a  fairy,  who  half  the  time  was  a  beautiful 
woman  and  half  the  time  a  hideous  monster.  Had  I 
taken  that  very  fairy  to  be  the  wife  of  my  bosom? 
While  such  whims  and  chimeras  were  flitting  across 
my  fancy,  I  began  to  look  askance  at  Mrs.  Bullfrog, 
almost  expecting  that  the  transformation  would  be 
wrought  before  my  eyes. 

To  divert  my  mind,  I  took  up  the  newspaper  which 
had  covered  the  little  basket  of  refreshments,  and  which 
now  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  coach,  blushing  with  a 
deep-red  stain,  and  emitting  a  potent  spirituous  fume, 
from  the  contents  of  the  broken  bottle  of  Kalydor.  The 
paper  was  two  or  three  years  old,  but  contained  an 
article  of  several  columns,  in  which  I  soon  grew  wonder- 
fully interested.  It  was  the  report  of  a  trial  for  breach 
of  promise  of  marriage,  giving  the  testimony  in  full, 
with  fervid  extracts  from  both  the  gentleman's  and 
lady's  amatory  correspondence.  The  deserted  damsel 
had  personally  appeared  in  court,  and  had  borne  ener- 
getic evidence  to  her  lover's  perfidy,  and  the  strength 


120  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

of  her  blighted  affections.  —  On  the  defendant's  part, 
there  had  been  an  attempt,  though  insufficiently  sus- 
tained, to  blast  the  plaintiff's  character,  and  a  plea,  in 
mitigation  of  damages,  on  account  of  her  unamiable 
temper.  A  horrible  idea  was  suggested  by  the  lady's 
name. 

"  Madam,"  said  I,  holding  the  newspaper  before 
Mrs.  Bullfrog's  eyes  —  and,  though  a  small,  delicate, 
and  thin-visaged  man,  I  feel  assured  that  I  looked  very 
terrific  —  "  Madam,"  repeated  I,  through  my  shut  teeth, 
"  were  you  the  plaintiff  in  this  cause  ? " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  replied  my  wife, 
sweetly,  "  I  thought  all  the  world  knew  that !  " 

"Horror!  horror!"  exclaimed  I,  sinking  back  on  the 
seat. 

Covering  my  face  with  both  hands,  I  emitted  a  deep 
and  deathlike  groan,  as  if  my  tormented  soul  were  rend- 
ing me  asunder.  I,  the  most  exquisitely  fastidious  of 
men,  and  whose  wife  was  to  have  been  the  most  delicate 
and  refined  of  women,  with  all  the  fresh  dew-drops  glit- 
tering on  her  virgin  rosebud  of  a  heart !  I  thought  of 
the  glossy  ringlets  and  pearly  teeth  —  I  thought  of  the 
Kalydor  —  I  thought  of  the  coachman's  bruised  ear  and 
bloody  nose  —  I  thought  of  the  tender  love-secrets, 
which  she  had  whispered  to  the  judge  and  jury, 
and  a  thousand  tittering  auditors — and  gave  another 
groan ! 

"  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  my  wife. 

As  I  made  no  reply,  she  gently  took  my  hands  within 
her  own,  removed  them  from  my  face,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
steadfastly  on  mine. 

"  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  she,  not  unkindly,  yet  with  all 
the  decision  of  her  strong  character,  "  let  me  advise 
you  to  overcome  this  foolish  weakness,  and  prove  your- 
self, to  the  best  of  your  ability,  as  good  a  husband  as  I 
will  be  a  wife.  You  have  discovered,  perhaps,  some 
little  imperfections  in  your  bride.  Well  —  what  did  you 
expect?  Women  are  not  angels.  If  they  were,  they 
would  go  to  Heaven  for  husbands  —  or,  at  least,  be  more 
difficult  in  their  choice  on  earth." 


MRS.    BULLFROG  121 

"  But  why  conceal  those  imperfections  ? "  interposed 
I,  tremulously. 

"  Now,  my  love,  are  not  you  a  most  unreasonable 
little  man  ? "  said  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  patting  me  on  the 
cheek.  "Ought  a  woman  to  disclose  her  frailties 
earlier  than  the  wedding-day  ?  Few  husbands,  I 
assure  you,  make  the  discovery  in  such  good  season, 
and  still  fewer  complain  that  these  trifles  are  concealed 
too  long.  Well,  what  a  strange  man  you  are !  Poh ! 
you  are  joking." 

"  But  the  suit  for  breach  of  promise  !  "  groaned  I. 

"  Ah !  and  is  that  the  rub  ? "  exclaimed  my  wife. 
"  Is  it  possible  that  you  view  that  affair  in  an  objection- 
able light  ?  Mr.  Bullfrog,  I  never  could  have  dreamt 
it !  Is  it  an  objection,  that  I  have  triumphantly  defended 
myself  against  slander,  and  vindicated  my  purity  in  a 
court  of  justice?  Or,  do  you  complain,  because  your 
wife  has  shown  the  proper  spirit  of  a  woman,  and 
punished  the  villain  who  trifled  with  her  affections  ? " 

"  But,"  persisted  I  —  shrinking  into  a  corner  of  the 
coach,  however ;  for  I  did  not  know  precisely  how  much 
contradiction  the  proper  spirit  of  a  woman  would  endure 
—  "  but,  my  love,  would  it  not  have  been  more  dignified 
to  treat  the  villain  with  the  silent  contempt  he  merited  ?  " 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Bullfrog,"  said  my  wife, 
slyly ;  "  but,  in  that  case,  where  would  have  been  the  five 
thousand  dollars,  which  are  to  stock  your  dry-goods  store?" 

"  Mrs.  Bullfrog,  upon  your  honor,"  demanded  I,  as 
if  my  life  hung  upon  her  words,  "  is  there  no  mistake 
about  those  five  thousand  dollars  ? " 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  there  is  none,"  replied 
she.  "The  jury  gave  me  every  cent  the  rascal  had  — 
and  I  have  kept  it  all  for  my  dear  Bullfrog !  " 

"Then,  thou  dear  woman,"  cried  I,  with  an  over- 
whelming gush  of  tenderness,  "  let  me  fold  thee  to  my 
heart!  The  basis  of  matrimonial  bliss  is  secure,  and 
all  thy  little  defects  and  frailties  are  forgiven.  Nay, 
since  the  result  has  been  so  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  the 
wrongs  which  drove  thee  to  this  blessed  lawsuit.  Happy 
Bullfrog  that  I  am  !  " 


/T 
/    JL 


FIRE-WORSHIP 

T  is  a  great  revolution  in  social  and  domestic  life  — 
and  no  less  so  in  the  life  of  the  secluded  student  — 
this  almost  universal  exchange  of  the  open  fireplace  for 
the  cheerless  and  ungenial  stove.  /On  such  a  morning 
as  now  lowers  around  our  old  gray  parsonage,  I  miss 
the  bright  face  of  my  ancient  friend,  who  was  wont  to 
dance  upon  the  hearth,  and  play  the  part  of  a  more 
familiar  sunshine.  It  is  sad  to  turn  from  the  cloudy  sky 
and  sombre  landscape  —  from  yonder  hill,  with  its  crown 
of  rusty,  black  pines,  the  foliage  of  which  is  so  dismal 
in  the  absence  of  the  sun  ;  that  bleak  pasture  land,  and 
the  broken  surface  of  the  potato  field,  with  the  brown 
clods  partly  concealed  by  the  snow-fall  of  last  night  ; 
the  swollen  and  sluggish  river,  with  ice-encrusted  bor- 
ders, dragging  its  bluish  gray  stream  along  the  verge 
of  our  orchard,  like  a  snake  half  torpid  with  the  cold  — 
it  is  sad  to  turn  from  an  outward  scene  of  so  little  com- 
fort, and  find  the  same  sullen  influences  brooding  within 
the  precincts  of  my  study.  Where  is  that  brilliant  guest 
—  that  quick  and  subtle  spirit  whom  Prometheus  lured 
from  Heaven  to  civilize  mankind,  and  cheer  them  in 
their  wintry  desolation  —  that  comfortable  inmate,  whose 
smile,  during  eight  months  of  the  year,  was  our  sufficient 
consolation  for  summer's  lingering  advance  and  early 
flight  ?  Alas  !  blindly  inhospitable,  grudging  the  food 
that  kept  him  cheery  and  mercurial,  we  have  thrust  him 
into  an  iron  prison,  and  compel  him  to  smoulder  away 
his  life  on  a  daily  pittance  which  once  would  have  been 
too  scanty  for  his  breakfast  !  Without  a  metaphor,  we^ 
now  make  our  fire  in  an  air-tight  stove,  and  supply  it 
with  some  half-a-dozen  sticks  of  wood  between  dawn 
and  nightfall. 

I  never  shall  be  reconciled  to  this  enormity.     Truly 


FIRE-WORSHIP  123 

may  it  be  said,  that  the  world  looks  darker  for  it.  In 
one  way  or  another,  here  and  there,  and  all  around 
us,  the  inventions  of  mankind  are  fast  blotting  the 
picturesque,  the  poetic,  and  the  beautiful  out  of  human 
life.  The  domestic  fire  was  a  type  of  all  these  attri- 
butes, and  seemed  to  bring  might  and  majesty,  and  wild 
Nature,  and  a  spiritual  essence,  into  our  inmost  home, 
and  yet  to  dwell  with  us  in  such  friendliness,  that  its 
mysteries  and  marvels  excited  no  dismay.  The  same 
mild  companion,  that  smiled  so  placidly  in  our  faces, 
was  he  that  comes  roaring  out  of  ^tna,  and  rushes 
madly  up  the  sky,  like  a  fiend  breaking  loose  from  tor- 
ment, and  fighting  for  a  place  among  the  upper  angels. 
He  it  is,  too,  that  leaps  from  cloud  to  cloud  amid  the 
crashing  thunder-storm.  It  was  he  whom  the  Gheber 
worshipped,  with  no  unnatural  idolatry ;  and  it  was 
he  who  devoured  London  and  Moscow,  and  many  an- 
other famous  city,  and  who  loves  to  riot  through  our 
own  dark  forests,  and  sweep  across  our  prairies,  and  to 
whose  ravenous  maw,  it  is  said,  the  universe  shall  one 
day  be  given  as  a  final  feast.  Meanwhile  he  is  the  great 
artisan  and  laborer  by  whose  aid  men  are  enabled  to  build 
a  world  within  a  world,  or,  at  least,  to  smooth  down  the 
rough  creation  which  Nature  flung  to  us.  He  forges  the 
mighty  anchor,  and  every  lesser  instrument.  He  drives 
the  steamboat  and  drags  the  rail-car.  And  it  was  he  — 
this  creature  of  terrible  might,  and  so  many-sided  utility, 
and  all-comprehensive  destructiveness  —  that  used  to  be 
the  cheerful,  homely  friend  of  our  wintry  days,  and  whom 
we  have  made  the  prisoner  of  this  iron  cage  ! 

How  kindly  he  was,  and,  though  the  tremendous 
agent  of  change,  yet  bearing  himself  with  such  gentle- 
ness, so  rendering  himself  a  part  of  all  lifelong  and  age- 
coeval  associations,  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  the 
great  conservative  of  Nature !  While  a  man  was  true ' 
to  the  fireside,  so  long  would  he  be  true  to  country  and 
law — to  the  God  whom  his  fathers  worshipped  —  to 
the  wife  of  his  youth  —  and  to  all  things  else  which 
instinct  or  religion  have  taught  us  to  consider  sacred. 
With  how  sweet  humility  did  this  elemental  spirit  per- 


124  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

form  all  needful  offices  for  the  household  in  which  he 
was  domesticated  !  He  was  equal  to  the  concoction  of 
a  grand  dinner,  yet  scorned  not  to  roast  a  potato,  or 
toast  a  bit  of  cheese.  How  humanely  did  he  cherish 
the  schoolboy's  icy  fingers,  and  thaw  the  old  man's 
joints  with  a  genial  warmth,  which  almost  equalled  the 
glow  of  youth !  And  how  carefully  did  he  dry  the  cow- 
hide boots  that  had  trudged  through  mud  and  snow,  and 
the  shaggy  outside  garment,  stiff  with  frozen  sleet ;  tak- 
ing heed,  likewise,  to  the  comfort  of  the  faithful  dog 
who  had  followed  his  master  through  the  storm  !  When 
did  he  refuse  a  coal  to  light  a  pipe,  or  even  a  part  of 
his  own  substance  to  kindle  a  neighbor's  fire  ?  And 
then,  at  twilight,  when  laborer  or  scholar,  or  mortal  of 
whatever  age,  sex,  or  degree,  drew  a  chair  beside  him, 
and  looked  into  his  glowing  face,  how  acute,  how  pro- 
found, how  comprehensive,  was  his  sympathy  with  the 
mood  of  each  and  all!  He  pictured  forth  their  very 
thoughts.  To  the  youthful  he  showed  the  scenes  of 
the  adventurous  life  before  them;  to  the  aged,  the 
shadows  of  departed  love  and  hope ;  and,  if  all  earthly 
things  had  grown  distasteful,  he  could  gladden  the  fire- 
side muser  with  golden  glimpses  of  a  better  world. 
And,  amid  this  varied  communion  with  the  human  soul, 
how  busily  would  the  sympathizer,  the  deep  moralist, 
the  painter  of  magic  pictures,  be  causing  the  tea-kettle 
to  boil ! 

Nor  did  it  lessen  the  charm  of  his  soft,  familiar  cour- 
tesy and  helpfulness,  that  the  mighty  spirit,  were  oppor- 
tunity offered  him,  would  run  riot  through  the  peaceful 
house,  wrap  its  inmates  in  his  terrible  embrace,  and/ 
leave  nothing  of  them  save  their  whitened  bones.  This 
possibility  of  mad  destruction  only  made  his  domestic 
kindness  the  more  beautiful  and  touching.  It  was  so 
sweet  of  him,  being  endowed  with  such  power,  to  dwell, 
day  after  day,  and  one  long,  lonesome  night  after  an- 
other, on  the  dusky  hearth,  only  now  and  then  betray- 
ing his  wild  nature  by  thrusting  his  red  tongue  out  of 
the  chimney-top  !  True,  he  had  done  much  mischief  in 
the  world,  and  was  pretty  certain  to  do  more;  but  his 


FIRE-WORSHIP  125 

warm  heart  atoned  for  all.  He  was  kindly  to  the 
race  of  man ;  and  they  pardoned  his  characteristic  im- 
perfections. 

The  good  old  clergyman,  my  predecessor  in  this  man- 
sion, was  well  acquainted  with  the  comforts  of  the  fire- 
side. His  yearly  allowance  of  wood,  according  to  the 
terms  of  his  settlement,  was  no  less  than  sixty  cords. 
Almost  an  annual  forest  was  converted  from  sound  oak 
logs  into  ashes,  in  the  kitchen,  the  parlor,  and  this  little 
study,  where  now  an  unworthy  successor  —  not  in  the 
pastoral  office,  but  merely  in  his  earthly  abode  —  sits 
scribbling  beside  an  air-tight  stove.  I  love  to  fancy  one 
of  those  fireside  days,  while  the  good  man,  a  contem- 
porary of  the  Revolution,  was  in  his  early  prime, 
some  five-and-sixty  years  ago.  Before  sunrise,  doubt- 
less, the  blaze  hovered  upon  the  gray  skirts  of  night, 
and  dissolved  the  frost-work  that  had  gathered  like  a 
curtain  over  the  small  window-panes.  There  is  some- 
thing peculiar  in  the  aspect  of  the  morning  fireside ;  a 
fresher,  brisker  glare ;  the  absence  of  that  mellowness, 
which  can  be  produced  only  by  half-consumed  logs, 
and  shapeless  brands  with  the  white  ashes  on  them, 
and  mighty  coals,  the  remnant  of  tree-trunks  that  the 
hungry  elements  have  gnawed  for  hours.  The  morning 
hearth,  too,  is  newly  swept,  and  the  brazen  andirons 
well  brightened,  so  that  the  cheerful  fire  may  see  its 
face  in  them.  Surely  it  was  happiness,  when  the  pastor, 
fortified  with  a  substantial  breakfast,  sat  down  in  his 
armchair  and  slippers,  and  opened  the  Whole  Body  of 
Divinity  or  the  Commentary  on  Job,  or  whichever  of  his 
old  folios  or  quartos  might  fall  within  the  range  of  his 
weekly  sermons.  It  must  have  been  his  own  fault,  if 
the  warmth  and  glow  of  this  abundant  hearth  did  not 
permeate  the  discourse,  and  keep  his  audience  comfort- 
able, in  spite  of  the  bitterest  northern  blast  that  ever 
wrestled  with  the  church-steeple.  He  reads,  while  the 
heat  warps  the  stiff  covers  of  the  volume ;  he  writes 
without  numbness  either  in  his  heart  or  fingers ;  and, 
with  unstinted  hand,  he  throws  fresh  sticks  of  wood 
upon  the  fire. 


126  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

A  parishioner  comes  in.  With  what  warmth  of 
benevolence  —  how  should  he  be  otherwise  than  warm, 
in  any  of  his  attributes  ?  —  does  the  minister  bid  him 
welcome,  and  set  a  chair  for  him  in  so  close  proximity 
to  the  hearth,  that  soon  the  guest  finds  it  needful  to 
rub  his  scorched  shins  with  his  great  red  hands.  The 
melted  snow  drips  from  his  steaming  boots,  and  bub- 
bles upon  the  hearth.  His  puckered  forehead  unravels 
its  entanglement  of  crisscross  wrinkles.  We  lose  much 
of  the  enjoyment  of  fireside  heat,  without  such  an  oppor- 
tunity of  marking  its  genial  effect  upon  those  who  have 
been  looking  the  inclement  weather  in  the  face.  In  the 
course  of  the  day  our  clergyman  himself  strides  forth, 
perchance  to  pay  a  round  of  pastoral  visits,  or,  it  may 
be,  to  visit  his  mountain  of  a  wood-pile,  and  cleave  the 
monstrous  logs  into  billets  suitable  for  the  fire.  He 
returns  with  fresher  life  to  his  beloved  hearth.  During 
the  short  afternoon,  the  western  sunshine  comes  into 
the  study,  and  strives  to  stare  the  ruddy  blaze  out  of 
countenance,  but  with  only  a  brief  triumph,  soon  to  be 
succeeded  by  brighter  glories  of  its  rival.  Beautiful  it 
is  to  see  the  strengthening  gleam  —  the  deepening  light 
—  that  gradually  casts  distinct  shadows  of  the  human 
figure,  the  table,  and  the  high-backed  chairs,  upon  the 
opposite  wall,  and  at  length,  as  twilight  comes  on,  re- 
plenishes the  room  with  living  radiance,  and  makes  life 
all  rose-color.  Afar,  the  wayfarer  discerns  the  flicker- 
ing flame,  as  it  dances  upon  the  windows,  and  hails  it 
as  a  beacon-light  of  humanity,  reminding  him,  in  his 
cold  and  lonely  path,  that  the  world  is  not  all  snow, 
and  solitude,  and  desolation.  At  eventide,  probably, 
the  study  was  peopled  with  the  clergyman's  wife  and 
family ;  and  children  tumbled  themselves  upon  the 
hearth-rug,  and  grave  Puss  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
fire,  or  gazed,  with  a  semblance  of  human  meditation, 
into  its  fervid  depths.  Seasonably,  the  plenteous  ashes 
of  the  day  were  raked  over  the  mouldering  brands,  and 
from  the  heap  came  jets  of  flame,  and  an  incense  of 
night-long  smoke,  creeping  quietly  up  the  chimney. 

Heaven  forgive  the  old  clergyman !     In  his  later  life, 


FIRE-WORSHIP  127 

when,  for  almost  ninety  winters,  he  had  been  gladdened 
by  the  firelight  —  when  it  had  gleamed  upon  him  from 
infancy  to  extreme  age,  and  never  without  brightening 
his  spirits  as  well  as  his  visage,  and  perhaps  keeping 
him  alive  so  long  —  he  had  the  heart  to  brick  up  his 
chimney-place,  and  bid  farewell  to  the  face  of  his  old 
friend  forever  !  Why  did  not  he  take  an  eternal  leave 
of  the  sunshine  too  ?  His  sixty  cords  of  wood  had  prob- 
ably dwindled  to  a  far  less  ample  supply,  in  modern 
times ;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  parsonage  had  grown 
crazy  with  time  and  tempest,  and  pervious  to  the  cold ; 
but  still,  it  was  one  of  the  saddest  tokens  of  the  decline 
and  fall  of  open  fireplaces,  that  the  gray  patriarch  should 
have  deigned  to  warm  himself  at  an  air-tight  stove. 

And  I,  likewise  —  who  have  found  a  home  in  this 
ancient  owl's  nest,  since  its  former  occupant  took  his 
heavenward  flight —  I,  to  my  shame,  have  put  up  stoves'' 
in  kitchen,  and  parlor,  and  chamber.  Wander  where 
you  will  about  the  house,  not  a  glimpse  of  the  earth-born, 
heaven-aspiring  fiend  of  ./Etna  —  him  that  sports  in  the 
thunder-storm  —  the  idol  of  the  Ghebers  —  the  devourer 
of  cities,  the  forest-rioter,  and  prairie-sweeper  —  the  fu- 
ture destroyer  of  our  earth  —  the  old  chimney-corner 
companion,  who  mingled  himself  so  sociably  with  house- 
hold joys  and  sorrows  —  not  a  glimpse  of  this  mighty 
and  kindly  one  will  greet  your  eyes.  He  is  now  an  in- 
visible presence.  There  is  his  iron  cage/  Touch  it,  and 
he  scorches  your  fingers.  He  delights  to  singe  a  gar- 
ment, or  perpetrate  any  other  little  unworthy  mischief ; 
for  his  temper  is  ruined  by  the  ingratitude  of  mankind, 
for  whom  he  cherished  such  warmth  of  feeling,  and  to 
whom  he  taught  all  their  arts,  even  that  of  making  his 
own  prison-house.  In  his  fits  of  rage,  he  puffs  volumes 
of  smoke  and  noisome  gas  through  the  crevices  of  the 
door,  and  shakes  the  iron  walls  of  his  dungeon,  so  as 
to  overthrow  the  ornamental  urn  upon  its  summit.  We 
tremble,  lest  he  should  break  forth  amongst  us.  Much 
of  his  time  is  spent  in  sighs,  burthened  with  unutterable 
grief,  and  long-drawn  through  the  funnel.  He  amuses 
himself,  too,  with  repeating  all  the  whispers,  the  moans, 


128  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

and  the  louder  utterances  or  tempestuous  howls  of  the 
wind;  so  that  the  stove  becomes  a  microcosm  of  the 
aerial  world.  Occasionally,  there  are  strange  combina- 
tions of  sounds — voices,  talking  almost  articulately  within 
the  hollow  chest  of  iron  —  insomuch  that  fancy  beguiles 
me  with  the  idea  that  my  firewood  must  have  grown  in 
that  infernal  forest  of  lamentable  trees,  which  breathed 
their  complaints  to  Dante.  When  the  listener  is  half- 
asleep,  he  may  readily  take  these  voices  for  the  conversa- 
tion of  spirits,  and  assign  them  an  intelligible  meaning. 
Anon,  there  is  a  pattering  noise  —  drip,  drip,  drip  —  as 
if  a  summer  shower  were  falling  within  the  narrow  cir- 
cumference of  the  stove. 

These  barren  and  tedious  eccentricities  are  all  that 
the  air-tight  stove  can  bestow,  in  exchange  for  the  invalu- 
able moral  influences  which  we  have  lost  by  our  deser- 
tion of  the  open  fireplace.  Alas !  is  this  world  so  very 
bright,  that  we  can  afford  to  choke  up  such  a  domestic 
fountain  of  gladsomeness,  and  sit  down  by  its  darkened 
source,  without  being  conscious  of  a  gloom  ? 

It  is  my  belief  that  social  intercourse  cannot  long  con- 
tinue what  it  has  been,  now  that  we  have  subtracted 
from  it  so  important  and  vivifying  an  element  as  fire- 
light. The  effects  will  be  more  perceptible  on  our  chil- 
dren, and  the  generations  that  shall  succeed  them,  than 
on  ourselves,  the  mechanism  of  whose  life  may  remain 
unchanged,  though  its  spirit  be  far  other  than  it  was. 
The  sacred  trust  of  the  household  fire  has  been  trans- 
mitted in  unbroken  succession  from  the  earliest  ages, 
and  faithfully  cherished,  in  spite  of  every  discourage- 
ment such  as  the  Curfew  law  of  the  Norman  conquerors ; 
until  in  these  evil  days,  physical  science  has  nearly 
succeeded  in  extinguishing  it.  \But  we  at  least  have  our 
youthful  recollections  tinged  with  the  glow  of  the  hearth, 
and  our  lifelong  habits  and  associations  arranged  on  the 
principle  of  a  mutual  bond  in  the  domestic  fire.  There- 
fore, though  the  sociable  friend  be  forever  departed, 
yet  in  a  degree  he  will  be  spiritually  present  with  us ; 
and  still  more  will  the  empty  forms,  which  were  once 
full  of  his  rejoicing  presence,  continue  to  rule  our  man- 


.       FIRE-WORSHIP  129 

ners.  We  shall  draw  our  chairs  together,  as  we  and 
our  forefathers  have  been  wont,  for  thousands  of  years 
back,  and  sit  around  some  blank  and  empty  corner  of 
the  room,  babbling,  with  unreajr  cheerfulness,  of  topics 
suitable  to  the  homely  fireside.  /  A  warmth  from  the  past 
—  from  the  ashes  of  bygone  years,  and  the  raked-up 
embers  of  long  ago  —  will  sometimes  thaw  the  ice  about 
our  hearts/  But  it  must  be  otherwise  with  our  successors. 
On  the  most  favorable  supposition,  they  will  be  ac- 
quainted with  the  fireside  in  no  better  shape  than  that 
of  the  sullen  stove ;  and  more  probably,  they  will  have 
grown  up  amid  furnace-heat,  in  houses  which  might  be 
fancied  to  have  their  foundation  over  the  infernal  pit, 
whence  sulphurous  steams  and  unbreathable  exhalations 
ascend  through  the  apertures  of  the  floor.  There  will 
be  nothing  to  attract  these  poor  children  to  one  centre. 
They  will  never  behold  one  another  through  that  peculiar 
medium  of  vision  —  the  ruddy  gleam  of  blazing  wood  or 
bituminous  coal  —  which  gives  the  human  spirit  so  deep 
an  insight  into  its  fellows,  and  melts  all  humanity  into 
one  cordial  heart  of  hearts.  Domestic  life  —  if  it  may 
still  be  termed  domestic  —  will  seek  its  separate  corners, 
and  never  gather  itself  into  groups.  The  easy  gossip  — 
the  merry,  yet  unambitious  jest  —  the  lifelike,  practical 
discussion  of  real  matters  in  a  casual  way  —  the  soul  of 
truth,  which  is  so  often  incarnated  in  a  simple  fireside 
word  —  will  disappear  from  earth.  Conversation  will 
contract  the  air  of  a  debate,  and  all  mortal  intercourse 
be  chilled  with  a  fatal  frost. 

In  classic  times,  the  exhortation  to  fight  "  pro  aris  et 
focis  "  —  for  the  altars  and  the  hearths  —  was  considered 
the  strongest  appeal  that  could  be  made  to  patriotism. 
And  it  seemed  an  immortal  utterance  ;  for  all  subsequent 
ages  and  people  have  acknowledged  its  force,  and  re- 
sponded to  it  with  the  full  portion  of  manhood  that 
Nature  had  assigned  to  each.  Wisely  were  the  Altar 
and  the  Hearth  conjoined  in  one  mighty  sentence  !  For 
the  hearth,  too,  had  its  kindred  sanctity.  Religion  sat 
down  beside  it,  not  in  the  priestly  robes  which  decorated, 
and  perhaps  disguised  her  at  the  altar,  but  arrayed  in  a 


i3o  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

simple  matron's  garb,  and  uttering  her  lessons  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  mother's  voice  and  heart.  The  holy 
Hearth  !  If  any  earthly  and  material  thing  —  or  rather, 
a  divine  idea,  embodied  in  brick  and  mortar  —  might  be 
supposed  to  possess  the  permanence  of  moral  truth,  it 
was  this.  All  revered  it.  The  man  who  did  not  put  off 
his  shoes  upon  this  holy  ground  would  have  deemed  it 
pastime  to  trample  upon  the  altar.  It  has  been  our  task 
to  uproot  the  hearth.  What  further  reform  is  left  for 
our  children  to  achieve,  unless  they  overthrow  the  altar 
too  ?  And  by  what  appeal,  hereafter,  when  the  breath 
of  hostile  armies  may  mingle  with  the  pure,  cold  breezes 
of  our  country,  shall  we  attempt  to  rouse  up  native  valor  ? 
Fight  for  your  hearths  ?  There  will  be  none  throughout 
the  land.  FIGHT  FOR  YOUR  STOVES  !  Not  I,  in  faith. 
If,  in  such  a  cause,  I  strike  a  blow,  it  shall  be  on  the 
invader's  part;  and  Heaven  grant  that  it  may  shatter 
the  abomination  all  to  pieces ! 


BUDS   AND   BIRD-VOICES 

BALMY  Spring  —  weeks  later  than  we  expected,  and 
months  later  than  we  longed  for  her  —  comes  at 
last,  to  revive  the  moss  on  the  roof  and  walls  of  our  old 
mansion.  She  peeps  brightly  into  my  study-window, 
inviting  me  to  throw  it  open,  and  create  a  summer  at- 
mosphere by  the  intermixture  of  her  genial  breath  with 
the  black  and  cheerless  comfort  of  the  stove.  As  the 
casement  ascends,  forth  into  infinite  space  fly  the  in- 
numerable forms  of  thought  or  fancy  that  have  kept  me 
company  in  the  retirement  of  this  little  chamber,  during 
the  sluggish  lapse  of  wintry  weather ;  —  visions  gay, 
grotesque,  and  sad ;  pictures  of  real  life,  tinted  with 
nature's  homely  gray  and  russet ;  scenes  in  dream-land, 
bedizened  with  rainbow  hues,  which  faded  before  they 
were  well  laid  on; — all  these  may  vanish  now,  and 
leave  me  to  mould  a  fresh  existence  out  of  sunshine. 
Brooding  meditation  may  flap  her  dusky  wings,  and  take 
her  owl-like  flight,  blinking  amid  the  cheerfulness  of 
noontide.  Such  companions  befit  the  season  of  frosted 
window-panes  and  crackling  fires,  when  the  blast  howls 
through  the  black  ash-trees  of  our  avenue,  and  the  drift- 
ing snow-storm  chokes  up  the  wood-paths,  and  fills  the 
highway  from  stone-wall  to  stone-wall.  In  the  spring 
and  summer  time,  all  sombre  thoughts  should  follow  the 
winter  northward,  with  the  sombre  and  thoughtful  crows. 
N  The  old  paradisiacal  economy  of  life  is  again  in  force ; 
we  live,  not  to  think,  nor  to  labor,  but  for  the  simple 
end  of  being  happy ;  nothing,  for  the  present  hour,  is 
worthy  of  man's  infinite  capacity,  save  to  imbibe  the 
warm  smile  of  heaven,  and  sympathize  with  the  reviving 
earth. 

The  present  spring  comes  onward  with  fleeter  foot- 
steps, because  winter  lingered  so  unconscionably  long, 
131 


132  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

that  with  her  best  diligence  she  can  hardly  retrieve  half 
the  allotted  period  of  her  reign.  It  is  but  a  fortnight 
since  I  stood  on  the  brink  of  our  swollen  river,  and  be- 
held the  accumulated  ice  of  four  frozen  months  go  down 
the  stream.  Except  in  streaks  here  and  there  upon  the 
hillsides,  the  whole  visible  universe  was  then  covered 
with  deep  snow,  the  nethermost  layer  of  which  had  been 
deposited  by  an  early  December  storm.  It  was  a  sight 
to  make  the  beholder  torpid,  in  the  impossibility  of 
imagining  how  this  vast  white  napkin  was  to  be  re- 
moved from  the  face  of  the  corpselike  world,  in  less 
time  than  had  been  required  to  spread  it  there.  But 
who  can  estimate  the  power  of  gentle  influences,  whether 
amid  material  desolation,  or  the  moral  winter  of  man's 
heart !  There  have  been  no  tempestuous  rains  —  even 
no  sultry  days  — but  a  constant  breath  of  southern  winds, 
with  now  a  day  of  kindly  sunshine,  and  now  a  no  less 
kindly  mist,  or  a  soft  descent  of  showers,  in  which  a 
smile  and  a  blessing  seemed  to  have  been  steeped.  The 
snow  has  vanished  as  if  by  magic ;  whatever  heaps  may 
be  hidden  in  the  woods  and  deep  gorges  of  the  hills, 
only  two  solitary  specks  remain  in  the  landscape  ;  and 
those  I  shall  almost  regret  to  miss,  when,  to-morrow,  I 
look  for  them  in  vain.  Never  before,  methinks,  has 
spring  pressed  so  closely  on  the  footsteps  of  retreating 
winter.  Along  the  road-side,  the  green  blades  of  grass 
have  sprouted  on  the  very  edge  of  the  snow-drifts.  The 
pastures  and  mowing  fields  have  not  yet  assumed  a 
general  aspect  of  verdure ;  but  neither  have  they  the 
cheerless  brown  tint  which  they  wear  in  latter  autumn, 
when  vegetation  has  entirely  ceased;  there  is  now  a 
faint  shadow  of  life,  gradually  brightening  into  the  warm 
reality.  Some  tracts,  in  a  happy  exposure  —  as,  for 
instance,  yonder  south-western  slope  of  an  orchard,  in 
front  of  that  old  red  farm-house,  beyond  the  river  — 
such  patches  of  land  already  wear  a  beautiful  and  tender 
green,  to  which  no  future  luxuriance  can  add  a  charm. 
It  looks  unreal  —  a  prophecy  —  a  hope  —  a  transitory 
effect  of  some  peculiar  light,  which  will  vanish  with  the 
slightest  motion  of  the  eye.  But  beauty  is  never  a  delu- 


BUDS   AND    BIRD-VOICES          133 

sion;  not  these  verdant  tracts,  but  the  dark  and  barren 
landscape,  all  around  them,  is  a  shadow  and  a  dream. 
Each  moment  wins  some  portion  of  the  earth  from  death 
to  life ;  a  sudden  gleam  of  verdure  brightens  along  the 
sunny  slope  of  a  bank,  which,  an  instant  ago,  was  brown 
and  bare.  You  look  again,  and  behold  an  apparition  of 
green  grass ! 

The  trees,  in  our  orchard  and  elsewhere,  are  as  yet 
naked,  but  already  appear  full  of  life  and  vegetable 
blood.  It  seems  as  if,  by  one  magic  touch,  they  might 
instantaneously  burst  into  full  foliage,  and  that  the  wind, 
which  now  sighs  through  their  naked  branches,  might 
make  sudden  music  amid  innumerable  leaves.  The 
moss-grown  willow-tree,  which  for  forty  years  past  has 
overshadowed  these  western  windows,  will  be  among  the 
first  to  put  on  its  green  attire.  There  are  some  objec- 
tions to  the  willow ;  it  is  not  a  dry  and  cleanly  tree,  and 
impresses  the  beholder  with  an  association  of  sliminess. 
No  trees,  I  think,  are  perfectly  agreeable  as  companions, 
unless  they  have  glossy  leaves,  dry  bark,  and  a  firm  and 
hard  texture  of  trunk  and  branches.  But  the\ willow  is 
almost  the  earliest  to  gladden  us  with  the  promise  and 
reality  of  beauty,  in  its  graceful  and  delicate  foliage,  and 
the  last  to  scatter  its  yellow  yet  scarcely  withered  leaves 
upon  the  ground.  All  through  the  winter,  too,  its  yellow 
twigs  give  it  a  sunny  aspect,  which  is  not  without  a 
cheering  influence,  even  in  the  grayest  and  gloomiest 
day.  Beneath  a  clouded  sky,  it  faithfully  remembers  the 
sunshine.  Our  old  house  would  lose  a  charm,  were 
the  willow  to  be  cut  down,  with  its  golden  crown  over 
the  snow-covered  roof,  and  its  heap  of  summer  verdure. 

The  xlilac-shrubs,  under  my  study-windows,  are  like- 
wise almost  in  leaf ;  in  two  or  three  days  more,  I  may 
put  forth  my  hand,  and  pluck  the  topmost  bough  in 
its  freshest  green.  These  lilacs  are  very  aged,  and 
have  lost  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  their  prime.  The 
heart,  or  the  judgment,  or  the  moral  sense,  or  the  taste, 
is  dissatisfied  with  their  present  aspect.  Old  age  is 
not  venerable,  when  it  embodies  itself  in  lilacs,  rose- 
bushes, or  any  other  ornamental  shrubs ;  it  seems  as  if 


134  MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

such  plants,  as  they  grow  only  for  beauty,  ought  to 
flourish  only  in  immortal  youth,  or,  at  least,  to  die  before 
their  sad  decrepitude.  Trees  of  beauty  are  trees  of 
Paradise,  and  therefore  not  subject  to  decay,  by  their 
original  nature,  though  they  have  lost  that  precious 
birth-right  by  being  transplanted  to  an  earthly  soil, 
s,  There  is  a  kind  of  ludicrous  unfitness  in  the  idea  of  a 
time-stricken  and  grandfatherly  lilac-bush.  The  analogy 
holds  good  in  human  life.  Persons  who  can  only  be 
graceful  and  ornamental  —  who  can  give  the  world 
nothing  but  flowers  —  should  die  young  and  never  be 
seen  with  gray  hair  and  wrinkles,  any  more  than  the 
flower-shrubs  with  mossy  bark  and  blighted  foliage, 
like  the  lilacs  under  my  window.  Not  that  beauty  is 
worthy  of  less  than  immortality,  —  no,  the  beautiful 
should  live  forever,  —  and  thence  perhaps  the  sense  of 
impropriety,  when  we  see  it  triumphed  over  by  time. 
^Apple-trees,  on  the  other  hand,  grow  old  without 
reproach.  Let  them  live  as  long  as  they  may,  and 
contort  themselves  into  whatever  perversity  of  shape 
they  please,  and  deck  their  withered  limbs  with  a  spring- 
time gaudiness  of  pink  blossoms,  still  they  are  respect- 
able, even  if  they  afford  us  only  an  apple  or  two  in  a 
season.  Those  few  apples  — or,  at  all  events,  the 
remembrance  of  apples  in  bygone  years  —  are  the 
atonement  which  utilitarianism  inexorably  demands  for 
the  privilege  of  lengthened  life.  Human  flower-shrubs,7 
if  they  will  grow  old  on  earth,  should,  beside  their  lovely 
blossoms,  bear  some  kind  of  fruit  that  will  satisfy  earthly 
appetites  ;  else  neither  man,  nor  the  decorum  of  nature, 
will  deem  it  fit  that  the  moss  should  gather  on  them. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  strikes  the  attention,  when 
the  white  sheet  of  winter  is  withdrawn,^?  the  neglect 
and  disarray  that  lay  hidden  beneath  it./  Nature  is  not 
cleanly,  according  to  our  prejudices.  The  beauty  of 
preceding  years,  now  transformed  to  brown  and  blighted 
\i  deformity,  obstructs  the  brightening  loveliness  of  the 

present  hour.  Our  avenue  is  strewn  with  the  whole  crop 
of  autumn's  withered  leaves.  There  are  quantities  of 
decayed  branches  which  one  'tempest  after  another  has 


BUDS   AND    BIRD-VOICES          135 

flung  down  black  and  rotten  ;  and  one  or  two  with  the 
ruin  of  a  bird's  nest  clinging  to  them.  In  the  garden  are 
the  dried  bean-vines,  the  brown  stalks  of  the  asparagus- 
bed,  and  melancholy  old  cabbages  which  were  frozen 
into  the  soil  before  their  unthrifty  cultivator  could  find 
time  to  gather  them.  How  invariably,  throughout  all  p^^ocMr  (9 

^.*N> 

of  death !     On  the  soil  of  thought,  and  in  the  garden  of 


the  forms  of  life,  do  we  find  these  intermingled  memorials 

the  heart,  as  well  as  in  the  sensual  world,  lie  withered   \'       ^js- 


leaves ;  the  ideas  and  feelings  that  we  have  done  with. 
There  is  no  wind  strong  enough  to  sweep  them  away ; 
infinite  space  will  not  garner  them  from  our  sight. 
What  mean  they  ?  Why  may  we  not  be  permitted  to 
live  and  enjoy,  as  if  this  were  the  first  life,  and  our  own 
the  primal  enjoyment,  instead  of  treading  always  on 
these  dry  bones  and  mouldering  relics,  from  the  aged 
accumulation  of  which  springs  all  that  now  appears  so 
young  and  new  ?  Sweet  must  have  been  the  spring-  \ 
time  of  Eden,  when  no  earlier  year  had  strewn  its  decay  \ 
upon  the  virgin  turf,  and  no  former  experience  had 
ripened  into  summer,  and  faded  into  autumn,  in  the  ) 
hearts  of  its  inhabitants !  That  was  a  world  worth 
living  in !  Oh,  thou  murmurer,  it  is  out  of  the  very 
wantonness  of  such  a  life  that  thou  feignest  these  idle  ; 
lamentations !  There  is  no  decay.  Each  human  soul 
is  the  first  created  inhabitant  of  its  own  Eden.  We 
dwell  in  an  old  moss-covered  mansion,  and  tread  in  the 
worn  footprints  of  the  past,  and  have  a  gray  clergy- 
man's ghost  for  our  daily  and  nightly  inmate ;  yet  all 
these  outward  circumstances  are  made  less  than  vision- 
ary, by  the  renewingjpower  of  the  spirit.  Should  the 
spirit  ever  lose  this  power  —  should  the  withered  leaves, 
and  the  rotten  branches,  and  the  moss-covered  house, 
and  the  ghost  of  the  gray  past,  ever  become  its  reali- 
ties, and  the  verdure  and  the  freshness  merely  its  faint 
dream  —  then  let  it  pray  to  be  released  from  earth.  It 
will  need  the  air  of  heaven,  to  revive  its  pristine 
energies ! 

What  an  unlooked-for  flight  was  this,  from  our  shad- 
owy avenue  of  black-ash  and  Balm  of  Gilead  trees,  into 


136  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  infinite !  Now  we  have  our  feet  again  upon  the 
turf.  Nowhere  does  the  grass  spring  up  so  industriously 
as  in  this  homely  yard,  along  the  base  of  the  stone-wall, 
and  in  the  sheltered  nooks  of  the  buildings,  and  espe- 
cially around  the  southern  door-step  ;  a  locality  which 
seems  particularly  favorable  to  its  growth,  for  it  is 
already  tall  enough  to  bend  over,  and  wave  in  the  wind. 
I  observe,  that  several  weeds<^  and,  most  frequently,  a 
plant  that  stains  the  fingers  with  its  yellow  juice  —  have 
survived,  and  retained  their  freshness  and  sap  through- 
out the  winter.  One  knows  not  how  they  have  deserved 
such  an  exception  from  the  common  lot  of  their  race. 
They  are  now  the  patriarchs  of  the  departed  year,  and 
may  preach  mortality  to  the  present  generation  of  flowers 
and  weeds. 

Among  the  delights  of  spring,  how  is  it  possible  to 
forget  the  birds  !  Even  the  crows  were  welcome,  as  the 
sable  harbingers  of  a  brighter  and  livelier  race.  They 
visited  us  before  the  snow  was  off,  but  seem  mostly 
to  have  betaken  themselves  to  remote  depths  of  the 
woods,  which  they  haunt  all  summer  long.  Many  a 
time  shall  I  disturb  them  there,  and  feel  as  if  I  had 
intruded  among  a  company  of  silent  worshippers,  as  they 
sit  in  sabbath-stillness  among  the  tree-tops.  Their 
voices,  when  they  speak,  are  in  admirable  accordance 
with  the  tranquil  solitude  of  a  summer  afternoon ;  and, 
resounding  so  far  above  the  head,  their  loud  clamor 
increases  the  religious  quiet  of  the  scene,  instead  of 
breaking  it.  A  crow,  however,  has  no  real  pretensions7 
to  religion,  in  spite  of  his  gravity  of  mien  and  black 
attire ;  he  is  certainly  a  thief,  and  probably  an  infidel. 
The  gulls'  are  far  more  respectable,  in  a  moral  point 
of  view.  These  denizens  of  sea-beaten  rocks,  and 
haunters  of  the  lonely  beach,  come  up  our  inland  river, 
at  this  season,  and  soar  high  overhead,  flapping  their 
broad  wings  in  the  upper  sunshine.  They  are  among 
the  most  picturesque  of  birds,  because  they  so  float  and 
rest  upon  the  air,  as  to  become  almost  stationary  parts 
of  the  landscape.  The  imagination  has  time  to  grow 
acquainted  with  them ;  they  have  not  flitted  away  in  a 


BUDS   AND    BIRD-VOICES         137 

moment.  You  go  up  among  the  clouds,  and  greet  these 
lofty-flighted  gulls,  and  repose  confidently  with  them 
upon  the  sustaining  atmosphere.  Ducks  have  their 
haunts  along  the  solitary  places  of  the  river,  and  alight 
in  flocks  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the  overflowed 
meadows.  Their  flight  is  too  rapid  and  determined  for 
the  eye  to  catch  enjoyment  from  it,  although  it  never 
fails  to  stir  up  the  heart  with  the  sportsman's  ineradi- 
cable instinct.  They  have  now  gone  further  northward, 
but  will  visit  us  again  in  autumn. 

The  smaller  birds — the  little  songsters  of  the  woods, 
and  those  that  haunt  man's  dwellings,  and  claim  hu- 
man friendship  by  building  their  nests  under  the  shelter- 
ing eaves,  or  among  the  orchard  trees  —  these  require 
a  touch  more  delicate,  and  a  gentler  heart  than  mine, 
to  do  them  justice.  Their  outburst  of  melody  is  like 
a  brook  let  loose  from  wintry  chains.^/ We  need  not  -., 
deem  it  a  too  high  and  solemn  word,  to  call  it  a  hymn 
of  praise  to  the  Creator;  since  Nature,  who  pictures  / 
the  reviving  year  in  so  many  sights  of  beauty,  has  ex- 
pressed the  sentiment  of  renewed  life  in  no.other  sound, 
save  the  notes  of  these  blessed  birds.  /Their  music, 
however,  just  now,  seems  to  be  incidental,  and  not  the 
result  of  a  set  purpose.  They  are  discussing  the  econ- 
omy of  life  and  love,  and  the  site  and  architecture  of 
their  summer  residences,  and  have  no  time  to  sit  on  a 
twig,  and  pour  forth  solemn  hymns,  or  overtures,  operas, 
symphonies,  and  waltzes.  Anxious  questions  are  asked; 
grave  subjects  are  settled  in  quick  and  animated  debate; 
and  only  by  occasional  accident,  as  from  pure  ecstasy, 
does  a  rich  warble  roll  its  tiny  waves  of  golden  sound 
through  the  atmosphere.  Their  little  bodies  are  as 
busy  as  their  voices ;  they  are  in  a  constant  flutter  and 
restlessness.  Even  when  two  or  three  retreat  to  a  tree- 
top,  to  hold  council,  they  wag  their  tails  and  heads  all 
the  time,  with  the  irrepressible  activity  of  their  nature, 
which  perhaps  renders  their  brief  span  of  life  in  reality 
as  long  as  the  patriarchal  age  of  sluggish  man.  The 
'blackbirds,  three  species  of  which  consort  together,  are 
the  noisiest  of  all  our  feathered  citizens.  Great  com- 


138  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

panics  of  them  —  more  than  the  famous  "four-and- 
twenty "  whom  Mother  Goose  has  immortalized  — 
congregate  in  contiguous  tree-tops,  and  vociferate  with 
all  the  clamor  and  confusion  of  a  turbulent  political 
meeting.  Politics,  certainly,  must  be  the  occasion  of 
such  tumultuous  debates;  but  still — unlike  all  other 
politicians  —  they  instil  melody  into  their  individual 
utterances,  and  produce  harmony  as  a  general  effect. 
Of  all  bird-voices,  none  are  more  sweet  and  cheerful  to 
my  ear  than  those  of  swallows*  in  the  dim,  sun-streaked 
interior  of  a  lofty  barn;  they  address  the  heart  with 
even  a  closer  sympathy  than  Robin  Red-breast.  But, 
indeed,  all  these  winged  people,  that  dwell  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  homesteads,  seem  to  partake  of  human  nature, 
and  possess^  the  germ,  if  not  the  development,  of  im- 
mortal souls.  We  hear  them  saying  their  melodious 
prayers,  at  morning's  blush  and  eventide.  A  little 
while  ago,  in  the  deep  of  night,  there  came  the  lively 
thrill  of  a  bird's  note  from  a  neighboring  tree ;  a  real 
song,  such  as  greets  the  purple  dawn,  or  mingles  with 
the  yellow  sunshine.  What  could  the  little  bird  mean, 
by  pouring  it  forth  at  midnight  ?  Probably  the  music 
gushed  out  of  the  midst  of  a  dream,  in  which  he  fancied 
himself  in  Paradise  with  his  mate,  but  suddenly  awoke 
on  a  cold,  leafless  bough,  with  a  New  England  mist 
penetrating  through  his  feathers.  That  was  a  sad  ex- 
change of  imagination  for  reality  ! 

Insect^  are  among  the  earliest  births  of  spring. 
Multitudes,  of  I  know  not  what  species,  appeared  long 
ago,  on  the  surface  of  the  snow.  Clouds  of  them, 
almost  too  minute  for  sight,  hover  in  a  beam  of  sun- 
shine, and  vanish,  as  if  annihilated,  when  they  pass 
into  the  shade.  A  mosquito  lias  already  been  heard  to 
sound  the  small  horror  of  his  bugle-horn.  Wasps  infest 
the  sunny  windows  of  the  house.  A  bee  entered  one 
of  the  chambers,  with  a  prophecy  of  flowers.  Rare 
butterflies  came  before  the  snow  was  off,  flaunting  in 
the  chill  breeze,  and  looking  forlorn  and  all  astray,  in 
spite  of  the  magnificence  of  their  dark  velvet  cloaks, 
with  golden  borders. 


BUDS   AND    BIRD-VOICES          139 

The  fields  and  wood-paths  have  as  yet  few  charms  to 
entice  the  wanderer.  In  a  walk,  the  other  day,  I  found 
no  violets,  nor  anemones,  nor  anything  in  the  likeness 
of  a  flower/  It  was  worth  while,  however,  to  ascend 
our  opposite  hill,  for  the  sake  of  gaining  a  general  idea 
of  the  advance  of  spring,  which  I  had  hitherto  been 
studying  in  its  minute  developments.  The  river  lay 
around  me  in  a  semicircle,  overflowing  all  the  meadows 
which  give  it  its  Indian  name,  and  offering  a  noble 
breadth  to  sparkle  in  the  sunbeams.  Along  the  hither 
shore,  a  row  of  trees  stood  up  to  their  knees  in  water ; 
and  afar  off,  on  the  surface  of  the  stream,  tufts  of 
bushes  thrust  up  their  heads,  as  it  were,  to  breathe. 
The  most  striking  objects  were  great  solitary  trees,  here 
and  there,  with  a  mile-wide  waste  of  water  all  around 
them.  The  curtailment  of  the  trunk,  by  its  immersion 
in  the  river,  quite  destroys  the  fair  proportions  of  the 
tree,  and  thus  makes  us  sensible  of  a  regularity  and 
propriety  in  the  usual  forms  of  nature.  The  flood  of 
the  present  season  —  though  it  never  amounts  to  a 
freshet,  on  our  quiet  stream  —  has  encroached  further 
upon  the  land  than  any  previous  one,  for  at  least  a 
score  of  years.  It  has  overflowed  stone-fences,  and  even 
rendered  a  portion  of  the  highway  navigable  for  boats. 
The  waters,'  however,  are  now  gradually  subsiding; 
islands  become  annexed  to  the  mainland;  and  other 
islands  emerge,  like  new  creations,  from  the  watery 
waste.  The  scene  supplies  an  admirable  image  of  the 
receding  of  the  Nile  —  except  that  there  is  no  deposit  of 
black  slime; — or  of  Noah's  flood  —  only  that  there  is 
a  freshness  and  novelty  in  these  recovered  portions 
of  the  continent,  which  give  the  impression  of  a  world 
just  made,  rather  than  of  one  so  polluted  that  a  deluge 
had  been  requisite  to  purify  it.  These  up-springing 
islands  are  the  greenest  spots  in  the  landscape ;  the 
first  gleam  of  sunlight  suffices  to  cover  them  with 
verdure. 

Thank  Providence  for  Spring !  The  earth  —  and 
man  himself,  by  sympathy  with  his  birth-place  —  would 
be  far  other  than  we  find  them,  if  life  toiled  wearily 


i4o  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

onward,  without  this  periodical  infusion  of  the  primal 
spirit.  Will  the  world  ever  be  so  decayed,  that  spring'' 
may  not  renew  its  greenness  ?  Can  man  be  so  dismally 
age-stricken,  that  no  faintest  sunshine  of  his  youth  may 
revisit  him  once  a  year  ?  It  is  impossible.  The  moss 
on  our  time-worn  mansion  brightens  into  beauty ;  the 
good  old  pastor,  who  once  dwelt  here,  renewed  his 
prime,  regained  his  boyhood,  in  the  genial  breezes  of 
his  ninetieth  spring.  Alas  for  the  worn  and  heavy  soul, 
if,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  it  have  outlived  its  privilege 
of  springtime  sprightliness !  From  such  a  soul,  the 
world  must  hope  no  reformation  of  its  evil  —  no  sym- 
pathy with  the  lofty  faith  and  gallant  struggles  of  those 
who  contend  in  its  behalf.  Summer  works  in  the  pres- 
ent, and  thinks  not  of  the  future ;  Autumn  is  a  rich 
conservative;  Winter  has  utterly  lost  its  faith,  and 
clings  tremulously  to  the  remembrance  of  what  has 
been ;  but  Spring,  with  its  outgushing  life,  is  the  true 
type  of  the  Movement! 


MONSIEUR  DU   MIROIR 

THAN  the  gentleman  above-named,  there  is  nobody 
in  the  whole  circle  of  my  acquaintance,  whom  I 
have  more  attentively  studied,  yet  of  whom  I  have  less 
real  knowledge,  beneath  the  surface  which  it  pleases 
him  to  present.  Being  anxious  to  discover  who  and 
what  he  really  is,  and  how  connected  with  me,  and  what 
are  to  be  the  results,  to  him  and  to  myself,  of  the  joint 
interest,  which,  without  any  choice  on  my  part,  seems  to 
be  permanently  established  between  us  —  and  incited, 
furthermore,  by  the  propensities  of  a  student  of  human 
nature,  though  doubtful  whether  M.  du  Miroir  have 
aught  of  humanity  but  the  figure  —  I  have  determined 
to  place  a  few  of  his  remarkable  points  before  the  public, 
hoping  to  be  favored  with  some  clew  to  the  explanation 
of  his  character.  Nor  let  the  reader  condemn  any  part 
of  the  narrative  as  frivolous,  since  a  subject  of  such 
grave  reflection  diffuses  its  importance  through  the 
minutest  particulars,  and  there  is  no  judging,  before- 
hand, what  odd  little  circumstance  may  do  the  office  of 
a  blind  man's  dog,  among  the  perplexities  of  this  dark 
investigation.  And  however  extraordinary,  marvellous, 
preternatural,  and  utterly  incredible,  some  of  the  medi- 
tated disclosures  may  appear,  I  pledge  my  honor  to 
maintain  as  sacred  a  regard  to  fact,  as  if  my  testimony 
were  given  on  oath,  and  involved  the  dearest  interests  of 
the  personage  in  question.  Not  that  there  is  matter  for 
a  criminal  accusation  against  M.  du  Miroir ;  nor  am  I 
the  man  to  bring  it  forward,  if  there  were.  The  chief 
that  I  complain  of  is  his  impenetrable  mystery,  which  is 
no  better  than  nonsense,  if  it  conceal  anything  good, 
and  much  worse  in  the  contrary  case. 

But,  if  undue  partialities  could  be  supposed  to  influ- 
ence me,  M.  du  Miroir  might  hope  to  profit,  rather  than 
141 


I4a  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

to  suffer  by  them ;  for,  in  the  whole  of  our  long  inter- 
course, we  have  seldom  had  the  slightest  disagreement ; 
and,  moreover,  there  are  reasons  for  supposing  him  a 
near  relative  of  mine,  and  consequently  entitled  to  the 
best  word  that  I  can  give  him.  He  bears,  indisputably, 
a  strong  personal  resemblance  to  myself,  and  generally 
puts  on  mourning  at  the  funerals  of  the  family.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  name  would  indicate  a  French  descent ; 
in  which  case,  infinitely  preferring  that  my  blood  should 
flow  from  a  bold  British  and  pure  Puritan  source,  I  beg 
leave  to  disclaim  all  kindred  with  M.  du  Miroir.  Some 
genealogists  trace  nis  origin  to  Spain,  and  dub  him  a 
knight  of  the  order  of  the  CABALLEROS  DE  LOS  ESPEJOS, 
one  of  whom  was  overthrown  by  Don  Quixote.  But 
what  says  M.  du  Miroir,  himself,  of  his  paternity  and 
his  fatherland  ?  Not  a  word  did  he  ever  say  about  the 
matter ;  and  herein,  perhaps,  lies  one  of  his  most  espe- 
cial reasons  for  maintaining  such  a  vexatious  mystery  — 
that  he  lacks  the  faculty  of  speech  to  expound  it.  His 
lips  are  sometimes  seen  to  move ;  his  eyes  and  counte- 
nance are  alive  with  shifting  expression,  as  if  correspond- 
ing by  visible  hieroglyphics  to  his  modulated  breath  ; 
and  anon,  he  will  seem  to  pause,  with  as  satisfied  an  air, 
as  if  he  had  been  talking  excellent  sense.  Good  sense 
or  bad,  M.  du  Miroir  is  the  sole  judge  of  his  own  con- 
versational powers,  never  having  whispered  so  much  as 
a  syllable,  that  reached  the  ears  of  any  other  auditor. 
Is  he  really  dumb  ?  —  or  is  all  the  world  deaf  ?  —  or  is  it 
merely  a  piece  of  my  friend's  waggery,  meant  for  noth- 
ing but  to  make  fools  of  us  ?  If  so,  he  has  the  joke  all 
to  himself. 

This  dumb  devil,  which  possesses  M.  du  Miroir,  is,  I 
am  persuaded,  the  sole  reason  that  he  does  not  make  me 
the  most  flattering  protestations  of  friendship.  In  many 
particulars  —  indeed,  as  to  all  his  cognizable  and  not 
preternatural  points,  except  that,  once  in  a  great  while, 
I  speak  a  word  or  two  —  there  exists  the  greatest  appar- 
ent sympathy  between  us.  Such  is  his  confidence  in  my 
taste,  that  he  goes  astray  from  the  general  fashion,  and 
copies  all  his  dresses  after  mine.  I  never  try  on  a  new 


MONSIEUR   DU    MIROIR  143 

garment,  without  expecting  to  meet  M.  du  Miroir  in  one 
of  the  same  pattern.  He  has  duplicates  of  all  my  waist- 
coats and  cravats,  shirt-bosoms  of  precisely  a  similar 
plait,  and  an  old  coat  for  private  wear,  manufactured,  I 
suspect,  by  a  Chinese  tailor,  in  exact  imitation  of  a  be- 
loved old  coat  of  mine,  with  a  facsimile,  stitch  by  stitch, 
of  a  patch  upon  the  elbow.  In  truth,  the  singular  and 
minute  coincidences  that  occur,  both  in  the  accidents 
of  the  passing  day  and  the  serious  events  of  our  lives 
remind  me  of  those  doubtful  legends  of  lovers,  or  twin- 
children,  twins  of  fate,  who  have  lived,  enjoyed,  suffered, 
and  died  in  unison,  each  faithfully  repeating  the  least 
tremor  of  the  other's  breath,  though  separated  by  vast 
tracts  of  sea  and  land.  Strange  to  say,  my  incommodi- 
ties  belong  equally  to  my  companion,  though  the  burthen 
is  nowise  alleviated  by  his  participation.  The  other 
morning,  after  a  night  of  torment  from  the  toothache, 
I  met  M.  du  Miroir  with  such  a  swollen  anguish  in  his 
cheek,  that  my  own  pangs  were  redoubled,  as  were  also 
his,  if  I  might  judge  by  a  fresh  contortion  of  his  visage. 
All  the  inequalities  of  my  spirits  are  communicated  to 
him,  causing  the  unfortunate  M.  du  Miroir  to  mope  and 
scowl  through  a  whole  summer's  day,  or  to  laugh  as 
long,  for  no  better  reason  than  the  gay  or  gloomy 
crotchets  of  my  brain.  Once  we  were  joint  sufferers 
of  a  three  months'  sickness,  and  met  like  mutual  ghosts 
in  the  first  days  of  convalescence.  Whenever  I  have 
been  in  love,  M.  du  Miroir  has  looked  passionate  and 
tender,  and  never  did  my  mistress  discard  me,  but 
this  too  susceptible  gentleman  grew  lackadaisical.  His 
temper,  also,  rises  to  blood-heat,  fever-heat,  or  boiling- 
water  heat,  according  to  the  measure  of  any  wrong  which 
might  seem  to  have  fallen  entirely  on  myself.  I  have 
sometimes  been  calmed  down,  by  the  sight  of  my  own 
inordinate  wrath  depicted  on  his  frowning  brow.  Yet, 
however  prompt  in  taking  up  my  quarrels,  I  cannot  call 
to  mind  that  he  ever  struck  a  downright  blow  in  my  be- 
half ;  nor,  in  fact,  do  I  perceive  that  any  real  and  tan- 
gible good  has  resulted  from  his  constant  interference 
in  my  affairs  ;  so  that,  in  my  distrustful  moods,  I  am  apt 


144  MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD   MANSE 

to  suspect  M.  du  Miroir's  sympathy  to  be  mere  outward 
show,  not  a  whit  better  nor  worse  than  other  people's 
sympathy.  Nevertheless,  as  mortal  man  must  have 
something  in  the  guise  of  sympathy,  and  whether  the 
true  metal,  or  merely  copperwashed,  is  of  less  moment, 
I  choose  rather  to  content  myself  with  M.  du  Miroir's, 
such  as  it  is,  than  to  seek  the  sterling  coin,  and  perhaps 
miss  even  the  counterfeit. 

In  my  age  of  vanities,  I  have  often  seen  him  in  the 
ball-room,  and  might  again,  were  I  to  seek  him  there. 
We  have  encountered  each  other  at  the  Tremont  theatre, 
where,  however,  he  took  his  seat  neither  in  the  dress- 
circle,  pit,  nor  upper  regions,  nor  threw  a  single  glance 
at  the  stage,  though  the  brightest  star,  even  Fanny 
Kemble  herself,  might  be  culminating  there.  No ;  this 
whimsical  friend  of  mine  chose  to  linger  in  the  saloon, 
near  one  of  the  large  looking-glasses  which  throw  back 
their  pictures  of  the  illuminated  room.  He  is  so  full  of 
these  unaccountable  eccentricities,  that  I  never  like  to 
notice  M.  du  Miroir,  nor  to  acknowledge  the  slightest 
connection  with  him,  in  places  of  public  resort.  He, 
however,  has  no  scruple  about  claiming  my  acquaintance, 
even  when  his  common  sense,  if  he  had  any,  might 
teach  him  that  I  would  as  willingly  exchange  a  nod  with 
the  Old  Nick.  It  was  but  the  other  day,  that  he  got 
into  a  large  brass  kettle,  at  the  entrance  of  a  hardware 
store,  and  thrust  his  head,  the  moment  afterwards,  into 
a  bright  new  warming-pan,  whence  he  gave  me  a  most 
merciless  look  of  recognition.  He  smiled,  and  so  did  I ; 
but  these  childish  tricks  make  decent  people  rather  shy 
of  M.  du  Miroir,  and  subject  him  to  more  dead  cuts  than 
any  other  gentleman  in  town. 

One  of  this  singular  person's  most  remarkable  peculi- 
arities is  his  fondness  for  water,  wherein  he  excels  any 
temperance-man  whatever.  His  pleasure,  it  must  be 
owned,  is  not  so  much  to  drink  it  (in  which  respect,  a 
very  moderate  quantity  will  answer  his  occasions),  as  to 
souse  himself  over  head  and  ears,  wherever  he  may  meet 
with  it.  Perhaps  he  is  a  merman,  or  born  of  a  mer- 
maid's marriage  with  a  mortal,  and  thus  amphibious  by 


MONSIEUR   DU    MIROIR  145 

hereditary  right,  like  the  children  which  the  old  river 
deities,  or  nymphs  of  fountains,  gave  to  earthly  love. 
When  no  cleaner  bathing-place  happened  to  be  at  hand, 
I  have  seen  the  foolish  fellow  in  a  horse-pond.  Some- 
times he  refreshes  himself  in  the  trough  of  a  town-pump, 
without  caring  what  the  people  think  about  him.  Often, 
while  carefully  picking  my  way  along  the  street,  after  a 
heavy  shower,  I  have  been  scandalized  to  see  M.  du 
Miroir,  in  full  dress,  paddling  from  one  mud-puddle  to 
another,  and  plunging  into  the  filthy  depths  of  each. 
Seldom  have  I  peeped  into  a  well,  without  discerning 
this  ridiculous  gentleman  at  the  bottom,  whence  he 
gazes  up,  as  through  a  long  telescopic  tube,  and  prob- 
ably makes  discoveries  among  the  stars  by  daylight. 
Wandering  along  lonesome  paths,  or  in  pathless  forests, 
when  I  have  come  to  virgin  fountains,  of  which  it  would 
have  been  pleasant  to  deem  myself  the  first  discoverer, 
I  have  started  to  find  M.  du  Miroir  there  before  me. 
The  solitude  seemed  lonelier  for  his  presence.  I  have 
leaned  from  a  precipice  that  frowns  over  Lake  George 
—  which  the  French  called  Nature's  font  of  sacramen- 
tal water,  and  used  it  in  their  log-churches  here,  and 
their  cathedrals  beyond  the  sea  —  and  seen  him  far 
below,  in  that  pure  element.  At  Niagara,  too,  where  I 
would  gladly  have  forgotten  both  myself  and  him,  I 
could  not  help  observing  my  companion,  in  the  smooth 
water  on  the  very  verge  of  the  cataract,  just  above  the 
Table  Rock.  Were  I  to  reach  the  sources  of  the  Nile, 
I  should  expect  to  meet  him  there.  Unless  he  be  an- 
other Lado,  whose  garments  the  depths  of  ocean 
could  not  moisten,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  he  keeps 
himself  in  any  decent  pickle ;  though  I  am  bound  to 
confess,  that  his  clothes  seem  always  as  dry  and  com- 
fortable as  my  own.  But,  as  a  friend,  I  could  wish  that 
he  would  not  so  often  expose  himself  in  liquor. 

All  that  I  have  hitherto  related  may  be  classed  among 
those  little  personal  oddities  which  agreeably  diversify 
the  surface  of  society ;  and,  though  they  may  sometimes 
annoy  us,  yet  keep  our  daily  intercourse  fresher  and 
livelier  than  if  they  were  done  away.  By  an  occasional 


146  MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

hint,  however,  I  have  endeavored  to  pave  the  way  for 
stranger  things  to  come,  which,  had  they  been  disclosed 
at  once,  M.  du  Miroir  might  have  been  deemed  a  shadow, 
and  myself  a  person  of  no  veracity,  and  this  truthful 
history  a  fabulous  legend.  But,  now  that  the  reader 
knows  me  worthy  of  his  confidence,  I  will  begin  to  make 
him  stare. 

To  speak  frankly,  then,  I  could  bring  the  most  as- 
tounding proofs  that  M.  du  Miroir  is  at  least  a  conjurer, 
if  not  one  of  that  unearthly  tribe  with  whom  conjurers 
deal.  He  has  inscrutable  methods  of  conveying  him- 
self from  place  to  place,  with  the  rapidity  of  the  swiftest 
steamboat  or  rail-car.  Brick  walls,  and  oaken  doors,  and 
iron  bolts  are  no  impediment  to  his  passage.  Here  in 
my  chamber,  for  instance,  as  the  evening  deepens  into 
night,  I  sit  alone  —  the  key  turned  and  withdrawn  from 
the  lock  —  the  keyhole  stuffed  with  paper,  to  keep  out 
a  peevish  little  blast  of  wind.  Yet,  lonely  as  I  seem, 
were  I  to  lift  one  of  the  lamps  and  step  five  paces  east- 
ward, M.  du  Miroir  would  be  sure  to  meet  me,  with  a 
lamp  also  in  his  hand.  And,  were  I  to  take  the  stage- 
coach to-morrow,  without  giving  him  the  least  hint  of 
my  design,  and  post  onward  till  the  week's  end,  at  what- 
ever hotel  I  might  find  myself  I  should  expect  to  share 
my  private  apartment  with  this  inevitable  M.  du  Miroir. 
Or,  out  of  a  mere  wayward  fantasy,  were  I  to  go,  by 
moonlight,  and  stand  beside  the  stone  font  of  the  Shaker 
Spring  at  Canterbury,  M.  du  Miroir  would  set  forth  on 
the  same  fool's  errand,  and  would  not  fail  to  meet  me 
there.  Shall  I  heighten  the  reader's  wonder  ?  While 
writing  these  latter  sentences,  I  happened  to  glance 
towards  the  large  round  globe  of  one  of  the  brass  and- 
irons ;  and  lo  !  —  a  miniature  apparition  of  M.  du  Miroir, 
with  his  face  widened  and  grotesquely  contorted,  as  if 
he  were  making  fun  of  my  amazement.  But  he  has 
played  so  many  of  these  jokes,  that  they  begin  to  lose 
their  effect.  Once,  presumptuous  that  he  was,  he  stole 
into  the  heaven  of  a  young  lady's  eyes,  so  that  while  I 
gazed,  and  was  dreaming  only  of  herself,  I  found  him 
also  in  my  dream.  Years  have  so  changed  him  since, 


MONSIEUR   DU   MIROIR  147 

that  he  need  never  hope  to  enter  those  heavenly  orbs 
again. 

From  these  veritable  statements,  it  will  be  readily 
concluded,  that,  had  M.  du  Miroir  played  such  pranks 
in  old  witch  times,  matters  might  have  gone  hard  with 
him  ;  at  least,  if  the  constable  and  posse  comitatus  could 
have  executed  a  warrant,  or  the  jailer  had  been  cunning 
enough  to  keep  him.  But  it  has  often  occurred  to  me 
as  a  very  singular  circumstance,  and  as  betokening  either 
a  temperament  morbidly  suspicious,  or  some  weighty 
cause  of  apprehension,  that  he  never  trusts  himself 
within  the  grasp  even  of  his  most  intimate  friend.  If 
you  step  forward  to  meet  him,  he  readily  advances;  if 
you  offer  him  your  hand,  he  extends  his  own,  with  an 
air  of  the  utmost  frankness ;  but  though  you  calculate 
upon  a  hearty  shake,  you  do  not  get  hold  of  his  little 
finger.  Ah,  this  M.  du  Miroir  is  a  slippery  fellow ! 

These,  truly,  are  matters  of  special  admiration.  After 
vainly  endeavoring,  by  the  strenuous  exertion  of  my 
own  wits,  to  gain  a  satisfactory  insight  into  the  char- 
acter of  M.  du  Miroir,  I  had  recourse  to  certain  wise 
men,  and  also  to  books  of  abstruse  philosophy,  seeking 
who  it  was  that  haunted  me,  and  why.  I  heard  long 
lectures,  and  read  huge  volumes,  with  little  profit  be- 
yond the  knowledge  that  many  former  instances  are 
recorded,  in  successive  ages,  of  similar  connections 
between  ordinary  mortals  and  beings  possessing  the 
attributes  of  M.  du  Miroir.  Some  now  alive,  perhaps, 
besides  myself,  have  such  attendants.  Would  that 
M.  du  Miroir  could  be  persuaded  to  transfer  his  at- 
tachment to  one  of  those,  and  allow  some  other  of  his 
race  to  assume  the  situation  that  he  now  holds  in  regard 
to  me !  If  I  must  needs  have  so  intrusive  an  intimate, 
who  stares  me  in  the  face  in  my  closest  privacy,  and 
follows  me  even  to  my  bedchamber,  I  should  prefer  — 
scandal  apart  —  the  laughing  bloom  of  a  young  girl,  to 
the  dark  and  bearded  gravity  of  my  present  companion. 
But  such  desires  are  never  to  be  gratified.  Though  the 
members  of  M.  du  Miroir's  family  have  been  accused, 
perhaps  justly,  of  visiting  their  friends  often  in  splendid 


148  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

halls  and  seldom  in  darksome  dungeons,  yet  they  ex- 
hibit a  rare  constancy  to  the  objects  of  their  first  at- 
tachment, however  unlovely  in  person  or  unamiable  in 
disposition,  however  unfortunate,  or  even  infamous,  and 
deserted  by  all  the  world  besides.  So  will  it  be  with 
my  associate.  Our  fates  appear  inseparably  blended. 
It  is  my  belief,  as  I  find  him  mingling  with  my  earliest 
recollections,  that  we  came  into  existence  together,  as 
my  shadow  follows  me  into  the  sunshine,  and  that,  here- 
after, as  heretofore,  the  brightness  or  gloom  of  my  for- 
tunes will  shine  upon,  or  darken,  the  face  of  M.  du 
Miroir.  As  we  have  been  young  together,  and  as  it  is 
now  near  the  summer  noon  with  both  of  us,  so,  if  long 
life  be  granted,  shall  each  count  his  own  wrinkles  on 
the  other's  brow,  and  his  white  hairs  on  the  other's 
head.  And  when  the  coffin-lid  shall  have  closed  over 
me,  and  that  face  and  form,  which,  more  truly  than  the 
lover  swears  it  to  his  beloved,  are  the  sole  light  of  his 
existence,  when  they  shall  be  laid  in  that  dark  chamber, 
whither  his  swift  and  secret  footsteps  cannot  bring  him, 
—  then  what  is  to  become  of  poor  M.  du  Miroir!  Will 
he  have  the  fortitude,  with  my  other  friends,  to  take  a 
last  look  at  my  pale  countenance  ?  Will  he  walk  fore- 
most in  the  funeral  train  ?  Will  he  come  often  and 
haunt  around  my  grave,  and  weed  away  the  nettles, 
and  plant  flowers  amid  the  verdure,  and  scrape  the  moss 
out  of  the  letters  of  my  burial-stone  ?  Will  he  linger 
where  I  have  lived,  to  remind  the  neglectful  world  of 
one  who  staked  much  to  win  a  name,  but  will  not  then 
care  whether  he  lost  or  won  ? 

Not  thus  will  he  prove  his  deep  fidelity.  Oh,  what 
terror,  if  this  friend  of  mine,  after  our  last  farewell, 
should  step  into  the  crowded  street,  or  roam  along  our 
old  frequented  path,  by  the  still  waters,  or  sit  down  in 
the  domestic  circle,  where  our  faces  are  most  familiar 
and  beloved !  No  ;  but  when  the  rays  of  Heaven  shall 
bless  me  no  more,  nor  the  thoughtful  lamplight  gleam 
upon  my  studies,  nor  the  cheerful  fireside  gladden  the 
meditative  man,  then,  his  task  fulfilled,  shall  this  mys- 
terious being  vanish  from  the  earth  forever.  He  will 


MONSIEUR    DU    MIROIR  149 

pass  to  the  dark  realm  of  Nothingness,  but  will  not  find 
me  there. 

There  is  something  fearful  in  bearing  such  a  relation 
to  a  creature  so  imperfectly  known,  and  in  the  idea  that, 
to  a  certain  extent,  all  which  concerns  myself  will  be 
reflected  in  its  consequences  upon  him.  When  we  feel 
that  another  is  to  share  the  self-same  fortune  with  our- 
selves we  judge  more  severely  of  our  prospects,  and 
withhold  our  confidence  from  that  delusive  magic  which 
appears  to  shed  an  infallibility  of  happiness  over  our 
own  pathway.  Of  late  years,  indeed,  there  has  been 
much  to  sadden  my  intercourse  with  M.  du  Miroir. 
Had  not  our  union  been  a  necessary  condition  of  our 
life  we  must  have  been  estranged  ere  now.  In  early 
youth,  when  my  affections  were  warm  and  free,  I  loved 
him  well,  and  could  always  spend  a  pleasant  hour  in 
his  society,  chiefly  because  it  gave  me  an  excellent 
opinion  of  myself.  Speechless  as  he  was,  M.  du  Miroir 
had  then  a  most  agreeable  way  of  calling  me  a  hand- 
some fellow ;  and  I,  of  course,  returned  the  compli- 
ment ;  so  that,  the  more  we  kept  each  other's  company, 
the  greater  coxcombs  we  mutually  grew.  But  neither 
of  us  need  apprehend  any  such  misfortune  now.  When 
we  chance  to  meet  —  for  it  is  chance  oftener  than  de- 
sign —  each  glances  sadly  at  the  other's  forehead, 
dreading  wrinkles  there,  and  at  our  temples,  whence  the 
hair  is  thinning  away  too  early,  and  at  the  sunken  eyes, 
which  no  longer  shed  a  gladsome  light  over  the  whole 
face.  I  involuntarily  peruse  him  as  a  record  of  my  heavy 
youth,  which  has  been  wasted  in  sluggishness,  for  lack 
of  hope  and  impulse,  or  equally  thrown  away  in  toil, 
that  had  no  wise  motive,  and  has  accomplished  no  good 
end.  I  perceive  that  the  tranquil  gloom  of  a  dis- 
appointed soul  has  darkened  through  his  countenance, 
where  the  blackness  of  the  future  seems  to  mingle  with 
the  shadows  of  the  past,  giving  him  the  aspect  of  a 
fated  man.  Is  it  too  wild  a  thought,  that  my  fate  may 
have  assumed  this  image  of  myself,  and  therefore 
haunts  me  with  such  inevitable  pertinacity,  originating 
every  act  which  it  appears  to  imitate,  while  it  deludes 


150  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

me  by  pretending  to  share  the  events  of  which  it  is 
merely  the  emblem  and  the  prophecy  ?  I  must  banish 
this  idea,  or  it  will  throw  too  deep  an  awe  round  my 
companion.  At  our  next  meeting,  especially  if  it  be  at 
midnight  or  in  solitude,  I  fear  that  I  shall  glance  aside 
and  shudder ;  in  which  case,  as  M.  du  Miroir  is  extremely 
sensitive  to  ill-treatment,  he  also  will  avert  his  eyes,  and 
express  horror  or  disgust. 

But  no!  This  is  unworthy  of  me.  As,  of  old,  I 
sought  his  society  for  the  bewitching  dreams  of  woman's 
love  which  he  inspired,  and  because  I  fancied  a  bright 
fortune  in  his  aspect,  so  now  will  I  hold  daily  and  long 
communion  with  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  stern  lessons  that 
he  will  teach  my  manhood.  With  folded  arms,  we  will 
sit  face  to  face,  and  lengthen  out  our  silent  converse, 
till  a  wiser  cheerfulness  shall  have  been  wrought  from 
the  very  texture  of  despondency.  He  will  say,  perhaps 
indignantly,  that  it  befits  only  him  to  mourn  for  the 
decay  of  outward  grace,  which,  while  he  possessed  it, 
was  his  all.  But  have  not  you,  he  will  ask,  a  treasure 
in  reserve,  to  which  every  year  may  add  far  more  value 
than  age,  or  death  itself,  can  snatch  from  that  miserable 
clay?  He  will  tell  me  that  though  the  bloom  of  life 
has  been  nipt  with  a  frost,  yet  the  soul  must  not  sit 
shivering  in  its  cell,  but  bestir  itself  manfully,  and 
kindle  a  genial  warmth  from  its  own  exercise,  against 
the  autumnal  and  the  wintry  atmosphere.  And  I,  in 
return,  will  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer,  nor  take  it  amiss 
that  I  must  blanch  his  locks  and  wrinkle  him  up  like  a 
wilted  apple,  since  it  shall  be  my  endeavor  so  to  beautify 
his  face  with  intellect  and  mild  benevolence,  that  he  shall 
profit  immensely  by  the  change.  But  here  a  smile  will 
glimmer  somewhat  sadly  over  M.  du  Miroir's  visage. 

When  this  subject  shall  have  been  sufficiently  dis- 
cussed, we  may  take  up  others  as  important.  Reflect- 
ing upon  his  power  of  following  me  to  the  remotest 
regions  and  into  the  deepest  privacy,  I  will  compare 
the  attempt  to  escape  him  to  the  hopeless  race  that 
men  sometimes  run  with  memory,  or  their  own  hearts, 
or  their  moral  selves,  which,  though  burthened  with 


MONSIEUR   DU    MIROIR          151 

cares  enough  to  crush  an  elephant,  will  never  be  one 
step  behind.  I  will  be  self-contemplative,  as  nature 
bids  me,  and  make  him  the  picture  or  visible  type  of 
what  I  muse  upon,  that  my  mind  may  not  wander  so 
vaguely  as  heretofore,  chasing  its  own  shadow  through 
a  chaos,  and  catching  only  the  monsters  that  abide 
there.  Then  will  we  turn  our  thoughts  to  the  spiritual 
world,  of  the  reality  of  which  my  companion  shall 
furnish  me  an  illustration,  if  not  an  argument.  For, 
as  we  have  only  the  testimony  of  the  eye  to  M.  du 
Miroir's  existence,  while  all  the  other  senses  would  fail 
to  inform  us  that  such  a  figure  stands  within  arm's 
length,  wherefore  should  there  not  be  beings  innumer- 
able, close  beside  us,  and  filling  heaven  and  earth  with 
their  multitude,  yet  of  whom  no  corporeal  perception 
can  take  cognizance  ?  A  blind  man  might  as  reason- 
ably deny  that  M.  du  Miroir  exists,  as  we,  because  the 
Creator  has  hitherto  withheld  the  spiritual  perception, 
can  therefore  contend  that  there  are  no  spirits.  Oh, 
there  are !  And  at  this  moment,  when  the  subject  of 
which  I  write  has  grown  strong  within  me,  and  sur- 
rounded itself  with  those  solemn  and  awful  associations 
which  might  have  seemed  most  alien  to  it/I  could 
fancy  that  M.  du  Miroir  himself  is  a  wanderer  from  the 
spiritual  world,  with  nothing  human  except  his  illusive 
garment  of  visibility.  /  Methinks  I  should  tremble  now, 
were  his  wizard  power,  of  gliding  through  all  impedi- 
ments in  search  of  me,  to  place  him  suddenly  before 
my  eyes. 

Ha!  What  is  yonder?  Shape  of  mystery,  did  the 
tremor  of  my  heart-strings  vibrate  to  thine  own,  and 
call  thee  from  thy  home,  among  the  dancers  of  the 
Northern  Lights,  and  shadows  flung  from  departed 
sunshine,  and  giant  spectres  that  appear  on  clouds  at 
daybreak,  and  affright  the  climber  of  the  Alps  ?  In 
truth,  it  startled  me,  as  I  threw  a  wary  glance  eastward 
across  the  chamber,  to  discern  an  unbidden  guest,  with 
his  eyes  bent  on  mine.  The  identical  MONSIEUR  DU 
MIROIR!  Still,  there  he  sits,  and  returns  my  gaze  with 
as  much  of  awe  and  curiosity,  as  if  he,  too,  had  spent  a 


152  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

solitary  evening  in  fantastic  musings,  and  made  me  his 
theme.  So  inimitably  does  he  counterfeit,  that  I  could 
almost  doubt  which  of  us  is  the  visionary  form,  or 
whether  each  be  not  the  other's  mystery,  and  both  twin 
brethren  of  one  fate,  in  mutually  reflected  spheres.  Oh, 
friend,  canst  thou  not  hear  and  answer  me?  Break 
down  the  barrier  between  us  !  Grasp  my  hand !  Speak  ! 
Listen  !  A  few  words,  perhaps,  might  satisfy  the  fever- 
ish yearning  of  my  soul  for  some  master-thought,  that 
should  guide  me  through  this  labyrinth  of  life,  teaching 
wherefore  I  was  born,  and  how  to  do  my  task  on  earth, 
and  what  is  death.  Alas !  Even  that  unreal  image 
should  forget  to  ape  me,  and  smile  at  these  vain  ques- 
tions. Thus  do  mortals  deify,  as  it  were,  a  mere  shadow 
of  themselves,  a  spectre  of  human  reason,  and  ask  of 
that  to  unveil  the  mysteries,  which  Divine  Intelligence 
has  revealed  so  far  as  needful  to  our  guidance,  and  hid 
the  rest. 

Farewell,  Monsieur  du  Miroir.  Of  you,  perhaps,  as 
of  many  men,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  you  are  the 
wiser,  though  your  whole  business  is  REFLECTION. 


THE   HALL  OF  FANTASY 

IT  has  happened  to  me,  on  various  occasions,  to  find 
myself  in  a  certain  edifice,  which  would  appear  to  have 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  a  public  Exchange.  Its 
interior  is  a  spacious  hall,  with  a  pavement  of  white 
marble.  Overhead  is  a  lofty  dome,  supported  by  long 
rows  of  pillars,  of  fantastic  architecture,  the  idea  of 
which  was  probably  taken  from  the  Moorish  ruins  of 
the  Alhambra,  or  perhaps  from  some  enchanted  edifice 
in  the  Arabian  Tales.  The  windows  of  this  hall  have 
a  breadth  and  grandeur  of  design,  and  an  elaborateness 
of  workmanship,  that  have  nowhere  been  equalled,  except 
in  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  old  world.  Like  their 
prototypes,  too,  they  admit  the  light  of  heaven  only 
through  stained  and  pictured  glass,  thus  filling  the  hall 
with  many-colored  radiance,  and  painting  its  marble 
floor  with  beautiful  or  grotesque  designs ;  so  that  its 
inmates  breathe,  as  it  were,  a  visionary  atmosphere,  and 
tread  upon  the  fantasies  of  poetic  minds.  These  pecu- 
liarities, combining  a  wilder  mixture  of  styles  than  even 
an  American  architect  usually  recognizes  as  allowable 
—  Grecian,  Gothic,  Oriental,  and  nondescript — cause 
the  whole  edifice  to  give  the  impression  of  a  dream, 
which  might  be  dissipated  and  shattered  to  fragments, 
by  merely  stamping  the  foot  upon  the  pavement.  Yet, 
with  such  modifications  and  repairs  as  successive  ages 
demand,  the  Hall  of  Fantasy  is  likely  to  endure  longer 
than  the  most  substantial  structure  that  ever  cumbered 
the  earth. 

It  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain  admittance  into 
this  edifice ;  although  most  persons  enter  it  at  some 
period  or  other  of  their  lives  —  if  not  in  their  waking 
moments,  then  by  the  universal  passport  of  a  dream. 
At  my  last  visit,  I  wandered  thither  unawares,  while  my 


154  MOSSES    FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

mind  was  busy  with  an  idle  tale,  and  was  startled  by  the 
throng  of  people  who  seemed  suddenly  to  rise  up  around 
me. 

"  Bless  me !  Where  am  I  ? "  cried  I,  with  but  a  dim 
recognition  of  the  place. 

/  "  You  are  in  a  spot,"  said  a  friend,  who  chanced  to  be 
near  at  hand,  "  which  occupies,  in  the  world  of  fancy, 
the  same  position  which  the  Bourse,  the  Rialto,  and  the 
Exchange  do  in  the  commercial  world.  All  who  have 
affairs  in  that  mystic  region,  which  lies  above,  below,  or 
beyond  the  Actual,  may  here  meet,  and  talk  over  the 
business  of  their  dreams.'X 

"  It  is  a  noble  hall,"  observed  I. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "Yet  we  see  but  a  small  portion 
of  the  edifice.  In  its  upper  stories  are  said  to  be  apart- 
ments, where  the  inhabitants  of  earth  may  hold  converse 
with  those  of  the  moon.  And  beneath  our  feet  are 
gloomy  cells,  which  communicate  with  the  infernal 
regions,  and  where  monsters  and  chimeras  are  kept 
in  confinement,  and  fed  with  all  unwholesomeness." 

In  niches  and  on  pedestals,  around  about  the  hall, 
stood  the  statues  or  busts  of  men,  who,  in  every  age, 
have  been  rulers  and  demi-gods  in  the  realms  of  imagi- 
nation, and  its  kindred  regions.  The  grand  old  counte- 
nance of  Homer ;  the  shrunken  and  decrepit  form,  but 
vivid  face  of  -^Esop ;  the  dark  presence  of  Dante ;  the 
wild  Ariosto ;  Rabelais's  smile  of  deep-wrought  mirth  ; 
the  profound,  pathetic  humor  of  Cervantes ;  the  all- 
glorious  Shakspeare ;  Spenser,  meet  guest  for  an 
allegoric  structure ;  the  severe  divinity  of  Milton ;  and 
Bunyan,  moulded  of  homeliest  clay,  but  instinct  with 
celestial  fire  —  were  those  that  chiefly  attracted  my  eye. 
Fielding,  Richardson,  and  Scott  occupied  conspicuous 
pedestals.  In  an  obscure  and  shadowy  niche  was 
deposited  the  bust  of  our  countryman,  the  author  of 
Arthur  Mervyn. 

"  Besides  these  indestructible  memorials  of  real 
genius,"  remarked  my  companion,  "  each  century  has 
erected  statues  of  its  own  ephemeral  favorites,  in  wood." 

"  I  observe  a  few  crumbling  relics  of  such,"  said  I. 


THE   HALL   OF   FANTASY         155 

"  But  ever  and  anon,  I  suppose,  Oblivion  comes  with 
her  huge  broom,  and  sweeps  them  all  from  the  marble 
floor.  But  such  will  never  be  the  fate  of  this  fine  statue 
of  Goethe." 

"  Nor  of  that  next  to  it  —  Emanuel  Swedenborg," 
said  he.  "  Were  ever  two  men  of  transcendent  imagi- 
nation more  unlike  ? " 

In  the  centre  of  the  hall  springs  an  ornamental  foun- 
tain, the  water  of  which  continually  throws  itself  into 
new  shapes,  and  snatches  the  most  diversified  hues  from 
the  stained  atmosphere  around.  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
ceive what  a  strange  vivacity  is  imparted  to  the  scene  by 
the  magic  dance  of  this  fountain,  with  its  endless  trans- 
formations, in  which  the  imaginative  beholder  may  dis- 
cern what  form  he  will.  The  water  is  supposed  by  some 
to  flow  from  the  same  source  as  the  Castalian  spring, 
and  is  extolled  by  others  as  uniting  the  virtues  of  the 
Fountain  of  Youth  with  those  of  many  other  enchanted 
wells,  long  celebrated  in  tale  and  song.  Having  never 
tasted  it,  I  can  bear  no  testimony  to  its  quality. 

"  Did  you  ever  drink  this  water  ?  "  I  inquired  of  my 
friend. 

"  A  few  sips,  now  and  then,"  answered  he.  "  But 
there  are  men  here  who  make  it  their  constant  bever- 
age—  or,  at  least,  have  the  credit  of  doing  so.  In  some 
instances,  it  is  known  to  have  intoxicating  qualities." 

"  Pray  let  us  look  at  these  water-drinkers,"  said  I. 

So  we  passed  among  the  fantastic  pillars,  till  we  came 
to  a  spot  where  a  number  of  persons  were  clustered 
together,  in  the  light  of  one  of  the  great  stained  win- 
dows, which  seemed  to  glorify  the  whole  group,  as  well 
as  the  marble  that  they  trod  on.  Most  of  them  were 
men  of  broad  foreheads,  meditative  countenances,  and 
thoughtful,  inward  eyes ;  yet  it  required  but  a  trifle  to 
summon  up  mirth,  peeping  out  from  the  very  midst  of 
grave  and  lofty  musings.  Some  strode  about,  or  leaned 
against  the  pillars  of  the  hall,  alone  and  in  silence ;  their 
faces  wore  a  rapt  expression,  as  if  sweet  music  were  in 
the  air  around  them,  or  as  if  their  inmost  souls  were 
about  to  float  away  in  song.  One  or  two,  perhaps,  stole 


156  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

a  glance  at  the  bystanders,  to  watch  if  their  poetic 
absorption  were  observed.  Others  stood  talking  in 
groups,  with  a  liveliness  of  expression,  a  ready  smile, 
and  a  light,  intellectual  laughter,  which  showed  how 
rapidly  the  shafts  of  wit  were  glancing  to-and-f ro  among 
them. 

A  few  held  higher  converse,  which  caused  their  calm 
and  melancholy  souls  to  beam  moonlight  from  their 
eyes.  As  I  lingered  near  them  —  for  I  felt  an  inward 
attraction  towards  these  men,  as  if  the  sympathy  of  feel- 
ing, if  not  of  genius,  had  united  me  to  their  order  —  my 
friend  mentioned  several  of  their  names.  The  world 
has  likewise  heard  those  names  ;  with  some  it  has  been 
familiar  for  years;  and  others  are  daily  making  their 
way  deeper  into  the  universal  heart. 

"  Thank  heaven,"  observed  I  to  my  companion,  as 
we  passed  to  another  part  of  the  hall,  "we  have  done 
with  this  tetchy,  wayward,  shy,  proud,  unreasonable  set 
of  laurel-gatherers.  I  love  them  in  their  works,  but 
have  little  desire  to  meet  them  elsewhere." 

"You  have  adopted  an  old  prejudice,  I  see,"  replied 
my  friend,  who  was  familiar  with  most  of  these  worthies, 
being  himself  a  student  of  poetry,  and  not  without  the 
poetic  flame.  "  But  so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  men 
of  genius  are  fairly  gifted  with  the  social  qualities ;  and 
in  this  age,  there  appears  to  be  a  fellow-feeling  among 
them,  which  had  not  heretofore  been  developed.  As 
men,  they  ask  nothing  better  than  to  be  on  equal  terms 
with  their  fellow-men ;  and  as  authors,  they  have  thrown 
aside  their  proverbial  jealousy,  and  acknowledge  a  gen- 
erous brotherhood." 

"  The  world  does  not  think  so,"  answered  I.  "  An 
author  is  received  in  general  society  pretty  much  as  we 
honest  citizens  are  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  We  gaze  at 
him  as  if  he  had  no  business  among  us,  and  question 
whether  he  is  fit  for  any  of  our  pursuits." 

"  Then  it  is  a  very  foolish  question,"  said  he.  "  Now, 
here  are  a  class  of  men,  whom  we  may  daily  meet  on 
'Change.  Yet  what  poet  in  the  hall  is  more  a  fool  of 
fancy  than  the  sagest  of  them?" 


THE    HALL   OF    FANTASY         157 

He  pointed  to  a  number  of  persons,  who,  manifest  as 
the  fact  was,  would  have  deemed  it  an  insult  to  be  told 
that  they  stood  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  Their  visages 
were  traced  into  wrinkles  and  furrows,  each  of  which 
seemed  the  record  of  some  actual  experience  in  life. 
Their  eyes  had  the  shrewd,  calculating  glance,  which 
detects  so  quickly  and  so  surely  all  that  it  concerns  a 
man  of  business  to  know  about  the  characters  and  pur- 
poses of  his  fellow-men.  Judging  them  as  they  stood, 
they  might  be  honored  and  trusted  members  of  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce,  who  had  found  the  genuine 
secret  of  wealth,  and  whose  sagacity  gave  them  the  com- 
mand of  fortune.  There  was  a  character  of  detail  and 
matter-of-fact  in  their  talk,  which  concealed  the  extrava- 
gance of  its  purport,  insomuch  that  the  wildest  schemes 
had  the  aspect  of  every-day  realities.  Thus  the  listener 
was  not  startled  at  the  idea  of  cities  to  be  built,  as  if  by 
magic,  in  the  heart  of  pathless  forests ;  and  of  streets  to 
be  laid  out,  where  now  the  sea  was  tossing;  and  of 
mighty  rivers  to  be  stayed  in  their  courses,  in  order 
to  turn  the  machinery  of  a  cotton-mill.  It  was  only  by 
an  effort  —  and  scarcely  then  —  that  the  mind  convinced 
itself  that  such  speculations  were  as  much  matter  of 
fantasy  as  the  old  dream  of  Eldorado,  or  as  Mammon's 
Cave  or  any  other  vision  of  gold,  ever  conjured  up  by 
the  imagination  of  needy  poet  or  romantic  adventurer. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  I,  "  it  is  dangerous  to  listen  to 
such  dreamers  as  these  !  Their  madness  is  contagious." 

"Yes,"  said  my  friend,  "because  they  mistake  the 
Hall  of  Fantasy  for  actual  brick  and  mortar,  and  its 
purple  atmosphere  for  unsophisticated  sunshine.  But 
the  poet  knows  his  whereabout,  and  therefore  is  less 
likely  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  real  life." 

"  Here  again,"  observed  I,  as  we  advanced  a  little 
further,  "  we  see  another  order  of  dreamers  —  peculiarly 
characteristic,  too,  of  the  genius  of  our  country." 

These  were  the  inventors  of  fantastic  machines.  Mod- 
els of  their  contrivances  were  placed  against  some  of  the 
pillars  of  the  hall,  and  afforded  good  emblems  of  the 
result  generally  to  be  anticipated  from  an  attempt  to 


158  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

reduce  day-dreams  to  practice.  The  analogy  may  hold 
in  morals,  as  well  as  physics.  For  instance,  here  was 
the  model  of  a  railroad  through  the  air,  and  a  tunnel 
under  the  sea.  Here  was  a  machine  —  stolen,  I  believe 
—  for  the  distillation  of  heat  from  moonshine ;  and 
another  for  the  condensation  of  morning-mist  into 
square  blocks  of  granite,  wherewith  it  was  proposed  to 
rebuild  the  entire  Hall  of  Fantasy.  One  man  exhibited 
a  sort  of  lens,  whereby  he  had  succeeded  in  making  sun- 
shine out  of  a  lady's  smile;  and  it  was  his  purpose 
wholly  to  irradiate  the  earth  by  means  of  this  wonder- 
ful invention. 

"  It  is  nothing  new,"  said  I,  "  for  most  of  our  sun- 
shine comes  from  woman's  smile  already." 

"  True,"  answered  the  inventor ;  "  but  my  machine 
will  secure  a  constant  supply  for  domestic  use  — 
whereas,  hitherto,  it  has  been  very  precarious." 

Another  person  had  a  scheme  for  fixing  the  reflec- 
tions of  objects  in  a  pool  of  water,  and  thus  taking  the 
most  lifelike  portraits  imaginable ;  and  the  same  gen- 
tleman demonstrated  the  practicability  of  giving  a  per- 
manent dye  to  ladies'  dresses,  in  the  gorgeous  clouds  of 
sunset.  There  were  at  least  fifty  kinds  of  perpetual 
motion,  one  of  which  was  applicable  to  the  wits  of  news- 
paper editors  and  writers  of  every  description.  Pro- 
fessor Espy  was  here,  with  a  tremendous  storm  in 
a  gum-elastic  bag.  I  could  enumerate  many  more  of 
these  Utopian  inventions ;  but,  after  all,  a  more  imagi- 
native collection  is  to  be  found  in  the  Patent  Office  at 
Washington. 

Turning  from  the  inventors,  we  took  a  more  general 
survey  of  the  inmates  of  the  hall.  Many  persons  were 
present,  whose  right  of  entrance  appeared  to  consist  in 
some  crotchet  of  the  brain,  which,  so  long  as  it  might 
operate,  produced  a  change  in  their  relation  to  the  act- 
ual world.  It  is  singular  how  very  few  there  are,  who 
do  not  occasionally  gain  admittance  on  such  a  score, 
either  in  abstracted  musings,  or  momentary  thoughts, 
or  bright  anticipations,  or  vivid  remembrances ;  for 
even  the  actual  becomes  ideal,  whether  in  hope  or 


THE    HALL   OF    FANTASY         159 

memory,  and  beguiles  the  dreamer  into  the  Hall  of 
Fantasy.  Some  unfortunates  make  their  whole  abode 
and  business  here,  and  contract  habits  which  unfit  them 
for  all  the  real  employments  of  life.  Others  —  but 
these  are  few  —  possess  the  faculty,  in  their  occasional 
visits,  of  discovering  a  purer  truth  than  the  world  can 
impart,  among  the  lights  and  shadows  of  these  pictured 
windows. 

/And  with  all  its  dangerous  influences,  we  have  reason 
to  thank  God,  that  there  is  such  a  place  of,  refuge  from 
the  gloom  and  chillness  of  actual  life/  Hither  may 
come  the  prisoner,  escaping  from  his  dark  and  narrow 
cell,  and  cankerous  chain,  to  breathe  free  air  in  this 
enchanted  atmosphere.  The  sick  man  leaves  his  weary 
pillow,  and  finds  strength  to  wander  hither,  though  his 
wasted  limbs  might  not  support  him  even  to  the  thresh- 
old of  his  chamber.  The  exile  passes  through  the  Hall 
of  Fantasy  to  revisit  his  native  soil.  The  burthen  of 
years  rolls  down  from  the  old  man's  shoulders,  the 
moment  that  the  door  uncloses.  Mourners  leave  their 
heavy  sorrows  at  the  entrance,  and  here  rejoin  the  lost 
ones,  whose  faces  would  else  be  seen  no  more,  until 
thought  shall  have  become  the  only  fact.  It  may  be 
said,  in  truth,  that  there  is  but  half  a  life  —  the  meaner 
and  earthlier  half  —  for  those  who  never  find  their  way 
into  the  hall.  Nor  must  I  fail  to  mention,  that,  in  the 
observatory  of  the  edifice,  is  kept  that  wonderful  per- 
spective glass,  through  which  the  shepherds  of  the 
Delectable  Mountains  showed  Christian  the  far-off 
gleam  of  the  Celestial  City.  The  eye  of  Faith  still 
loves  to  gaze  through  it. 

"  I  observe  some  men  here,"  said  I  to  my  friend, 
"  who  might  set  up  a  strong  claim  to  be  reckoned 
among  the  most  real  personages  of  the  day." 

"Certainly,"  he  replied.  "If  a  man  be  in  advance  of 
his  age,  he  must  be  content  to  make  his  abode  in  this 
hall  until  the  lingering  generations  of  his  fellow-men 
come  up  with  him.  He  can  find  no  other  shelter  in  the 
universe.  But  the  fantasies  of  one  day  are  the  deepest 
realities  of  a  future  one." 


160  MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

"It  is  difficult  to  distinguish  them  apart,  amid  the 
gorgeous  and  bewildering  light  of  this  hall,"  rejoined  I. 
"  The  white  sunshine  of  actual  life  is  necessary  in  order 
to  test  them.  I  am  rather  apt  to  doubt  both  men  and 
their  reasonings,  till  I  meet  them  in  that  truthful 
medium." 

"  Perhaps  your  faith  in  the  ideal  is  deeper  than  you 
are  aware,"  said  my  friend.  "You  are  at  least  a  Demo- 
crat ;  and  methinks  no  scanty  share  of  such  faith  is  essen- 
tial to  the  adoption  of  that  creed." 

Among  the  characters  who  had  elicited  these  re- 
marks, were  most  of  the  noted  reformers  of  the  day, 
whether  in  physics,  politics,  morals,  or  religion.  There 
is  no  surer  method  of  arriving  at  the  Hall  of  Fantasy, 
than  to  throw  oneself  into  the  current  of  a  theory  ;  for, 
whatever  landmarks  of  fact  may  be  set  up  along  the 
stream,  there  is  a  law  of  nature  that  impels  it  thither. 
And  let  it  be  so ;  for  here  the  wise  head  and  capacious 
heart  may  do  their  work;  and  what  is  good  and  true 
becomes  gradually  hardened  into  fact,  while  error  melts 
away  and  vanishes  among  the  shadows  of  the  hall. 
Therefore  may  none,  who  believe  and  rejoice  in  the 
progress  of  mankind,  be  angry  with  me  because  I  rec- 
ognize their  apostles  and  leaders,  amid  the  fantastic 
radiance  of  those  pictured  windows.  I  love  and  honor 
such  men,  as  well  as  they. 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  herd  of  real  or 
self-styled  reformers,  that  peopled  this  place  of  refuge. 
They  were  the  representatives  of  an  unquiet  period, 
when  mankind  is  seeking  to  cast  off  the  whole  tissue  of 
ancient  custom,  like  a  tattered  garment.  Many  of  them 
had  got  possession  of  some  crystal  fragment  of  truth, 
the  brightness  of  which  so  dazzled  them,  that  they  could 
see  nothing  else  in  the  wide  universe.  Here  were  men, 
whose  faith  had  embodied  itself  in  the  form  of  a  potato ; 
and  others  whose  long  beards  had  a  deep  spiritual  sig- 
nificance. Here  was  the  abolitionist,  brandishing  his 
one  idea  like  an  iron  flail.  In  a  word,  there  were  a 
thousand  shapes  of  good  and  evil,  faith  and  infidelity, 
wisdom  and  nonsense,  —  a  most  incongruous  throng. 


THE    HALL   OF   FANTASY         161 

Yet,  withal,  the  heart  of  the  stanchest  conservative, 
unless  he  abjured  his  fellowship  with  man,  could  hardly 
have  helped  throbbing  in  sympathy  with  the  spirit  that 
pervaded  these  innumerable  theorists.  It  was  good  for 
the  man  of  unquickened  heart  to  listen  even  to  their 
folly.  Far  down,  beyond  the  fathom  of  the  intellect, 
the  soul  acknowledged  that  all  these  varying  and  con- 
flicting developments  of  humanity  were  united  in  one 
sentiment.  Be  the  individual  theory  as  wild  as  fancy 
could  make  it,  still  the  wiser  spirit  would  recognize  the 
struggle  of  the  race  after  a  better  and  purer  life  than 
had  yet  been  realized  on  earth.  My  faith  revived,  even 
while  I  rejected  all  their  schemes.  It  could  not  be  that 
the  world  should  continue  forever  what  it  has  been ;  a 
soil  where  Happiness  is  so  rare  a  flower,  and  Virtue  so 
often  a  blighted  fruit ;  a  battle-field  where  the  good  prin- 
ciple, with  its  shield  flung  above  its  head,  can  hardly 
save  itself  amid  the  rush  of  adverse  influences.  In  the 
enthusiasm  of  such  thoughts,  I  gazed  through  one  of 
the  pictured  windows ;  and,  behold  !  the  whole  external 
world  was  tinged  with  the  dimly  glorious  aspect  that  is 
peculiar  to  the  Hall  of  Fantasy ;  insomuch  that  it  seemed 
practicable,  at  that  very  instant,  to  realize  some  plan  for 
the  perfection  of  mankind.  But,  alas !  if  reformers 
would  understand  the  sphere  in  which  their  lot  is  cast, 
they  must  cease  to  look  through  pictured  windows. 
Yet  they  not  only  use  this  medium,  but  mistake  it  for 
the  whitest  sunshine. 

"  Come,"  said  I  to  my  friend,  starting  from  a  deep 
revery,  —  "  let  us  hasten  hence,  or  I  shall  be  tempted 
to  make  a  theory  —  after  which,  there  is  little  hope  of 
any  man." 

"  Come  hither,  then,"  answered  he.  "  Here  is  one 
theory,  that  swallows  up  and  annihilates  all  others." 

He  led  me  to  a  distant  part  of  the  hall,  where  a  crowd 
of  deeply  attentive  auditors  were  assembled  round  an 
elderly  man,  of  plain,  honest,  trustworthy  aspect.  With 
an  earnestness  that  betokened  the  sincerest  faith  in  his 
own  doctrine,  he  announced  that  the  destruction  of  the 
world  was  close  at  hand. 


i62  MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

"  It  is  Father  Miller  himself !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"  No  less  a  man,"  said  my  friend;  "and  observe  how 
picturesque  a  contrast  between  his  dogma,  and  those  of 
the  reformers  whom  we  have  just  glanced  at.  They 
look  for  the  earthly  perfection  of  mankind,  and  are 
forming  schemes  which  imply  that  the  immortal  spirit 
will  be  connected  with  a  physical  nature,  for  innumer- 
able ages  of  futurity.  On  the  other  hand,  here  comes 
good  Father  Miller,  and,  with  one  puff  of  his  relentless 
theory,  scatters  all  their  dreams  like  so  many  withered 
leaves  upon  the  blast." 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  the  only  method  of  getting  mankind 
out  of  the  various  perplexities  into  which  they  have 
fallen,"  I  replied.  "  Yet  I  could  wish  that  the  world 
might  be  permitted  to  endure,  until  some  great  moral 
shall  have  been  evolved.  A  riddle  is  propounded. 
Where  is  the  solution  ?  The  sphinx  did  not  slay  her- 
self until  her  riddle  had  been  guessed.  Will  it  not  be 
so  with  the  world  ?  Now,  if  it  should  be  burnt  to-mor- 
row morning,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  what  purpose  will 
have  been  accomplished,  or  how  the  universe  will  be 
wiser  or  better  for  our  existence  and  destruction." 

"  We  cannot  tell  what  mighty  truths  may  have  been 
embodied  in  act,  through  the  existence  of  the  globe  and 
its  inhabitants,"  rejoined  my  companion.  "  Perhaps  it 
may  be  revealed  to  us,  after  the  fall  of  the  curtain  over 
our  catastrophe;  or,  not  impossibly,  the  whole  drama, 
in  which  we  are  involuntary  actors,  may  have  been  per- 
formed for  the  instruction  of  another  set  of  spectators. 
I  cannot  perceive  that  our  own  comprehension  of  it  is 
at  all  essential  to  the  matter.  At  any  rate,  while  our 
view  is  so  ridiculously  narrow  and  superficial,  it  would 
be  absurd  to  argue  the  continuance  of  the  world  from 
the  fact  that  it  seems  to  have  existed  hitherto  in  vain." 

"  The  poor  old  Earth,"  murmured  I.  "  She  has  faults 
enough,  in  all  conscience;  but  I  cannot  bear  to  have 
her  perish." 

"  It  is  no  great  matter,"  said  my  friend.  "The  hap- 
piest of  us  has  been  weary  of  her,  many  a  time  and 
oft." 


THE    HALL   OF    FANTASY         163 

"  I  doubt  it,"  answered  I,  pertinaciously ;  "  the  root 
of  human  nature  strikes  down  deep  into  this  earthly 
soil ;  and  it  is  but  reluctantly  that  we  submit  to  be 
transplanted,  even  for  a  higher  cultivation  in  Heaven. 
I  query  whether  the  destruction  of  the  earth  would 
gratify  any  one  individual ;  except,  perhaps,  some  em- 
barrassed man  of  business,  whose  notes  fall  due  a  day 
after  the  day  of  doom." 

Then,  methought,  I  heard  the  expostulating  cry  of  a 
multitude  against  the  consummation  prophesied  by 
Father  Miller.  The  lover  wrestled  with  Providence  for 
his  foreshadowed  bliss.  Parents  entreated  that  the 
earth's  span  of  endurance  might  be  prolonged  by  some 
seventy  years,  so  that  their  new-born  infant  should  not 
be  defrauded  of  his  lifetime.  A  youthful  poet  mur- 
mured, because  there  would  be  no  posterity  to  recognize 
the  inspiration  of  his  song.  The  reformers,  one  and  all, 
demanded  a  few  thousand  years  to  test  their  theories, 
after  which  the  universe  might  go  to  wreck.  A  mecha- 
nician, who  was  busied  with  an  improvement  of  the 
steam-engine,  asked  merely  time  to  perfect  his  model. 
A  miser  insisted  that  the  world's  destruction  would  be 
a  personal  wrong  to  himself,  unless  he  should  first  be 
permitted  to  add  a  specified  sum  to  his  enormous  heap 
of  gold.  A  little  boy  made  dolorous  inquiry  whether 
the  last  day  would  come  before  Christmas,  and  thus 
deprive  him  of  his  anticipated  dainties.  In  short,  no- 
body seemed  satisfied  that  this  mortal  scene  of  things 
should  have  its  close  just  now.  Yet,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, the  motives  of  the  crowd  for  desiring  its  contin- 
uance were  mostly  so  absurd,  that,  unless  Infinite 
Wisdom  had  been  aware  of  much  better  reasons,  the 
solid  Earth  must  have  melted  away  at  once. 

For  my  own  part,  not  to  speak  of  a  few  private  and 
personal  ends,  I  really  desired  our  old  Mother's  pro- 
longed existence,  for  her  own  dear  sake. 

"  The  poor  old  Earth ! "  I  repeated.  "  What  I  should 
chiefly  regret  in  her  destruction  would  be  that  very 
earthliness,  which  no  other  sphere  or  state  of  existence 
can  renew  or  compensate.  The  fragrance  of  flowers,  and 


1 64  MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

of  new-mown  hay ;  the  genial  warmth  of  sunshine, 
and  the  beauty  of  a  sunset  among  clouds ;  the  comfort 
and  cheerful  glow  of  the  fireside  ;  the  deliciousness  of 
fruits,  and  of  all  good  cheer ;  the  magnificence  of  moun- 
tains, and  seas,  and  cataracts,  and  the  softer  charm  of 
rural  scenery ;  even  the  fast-falling  snow,  and  the  gray 
atmosphere  through  which  it  descends  —  all  these,  and 
innumerable  other  enjoy  able  things  of  earth,  must  perish 
with  her.  Then  the  country  frolics  ;  the  homely  humor ; 
the  broad,  open-mouthed  roar  of  laughter,  in  which  body 
and  soul  conjoin  so  heartily  !  I  fear  that  no  other  world 
can  show  us  anything  just  like  this.  As  for  purely  moral 
enjoyments,  the  good  will  find  them  in  every  state  of 
being.  But  where  the  material  and  the  moral  exist 
together,  what  is  to  happen  then  ?  And  then  our  mute 
four-footed  friends,  and  the  winged  songsters  of  our 
woods  !  Might  it  not  be  lawful  to  regret  them,  even  in 
the  hallowed  groves  of  Paradise  ?  " 

"  You  speak  like  the  very  spirit  of  earth,  imbued  with 
a  scent  of  freshly  turned  soil !  "  exclaimed  my  friend. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  so  much  object  to  giving  up  these 
enjoyments,  on  my  own  account,"  continued  I;  "but  I 
hate  to  think  that  they  will  have  been  eternally  anni- 
hilated from  the  list  of  joys." 

"  Nor  need  they  be,"  he  replied.  "  I  see  no  real 
force  in  what  you  say.  Standing  in  this  Hall  of  Fan- 
tasy, we  perceive  what  even  the  earth-clogged  intellect 
of  man  can  do,  in  creating  circumstances  which,  though 
we  call  them  shadowy  and  visionary,  are  scarcely  more 
so  than  those  that  surround  us  in  actual  life.  Doubt 
not,  then,  that  man's  disembodied  spirit  may  recreate 
Time  and  the  World  for  itself,  with  all  their  peculiar 
enjoyments,  should  there  still  be  human  yearnings  amid 
life  eternal  and  infinite.  But  I  doubt  whether  we  shall 
be  inclined  to  play  such  a  poor  scene  over  again." 

"  Oh,  you  are  ungrateful  to  our  Mother  Earth !  "  re- 
joined I.  "  Come  what  may,  I  never  will  forget  her ! 
Neither  will  it  satisfy  me  to  have  her  exist  merely  in 
idea.  I  want  her  great,  round,  solid  self  to  endure 
interminably,  and  still  to  be  peopled  with  the  kindly 


THE   HALL   OF   FANTASY         165 

race  of  man,  whom  I  uphold  tar  be  much  better  than  he     , 
thinks  himself.     Nevertheless;  I  confide  the  whole  mat-      Jl    )  "J 
ter  to  Providence,  and  shall  endeavor  so  to  live,  that 
the  world  may  come  to  an  end  at  any  moment,  without  . 
leaving  me  at  a  loss  to  find  foothold  somewhere  else."   J 

"  It  is  an  excellent  resolve,"  said  my  companion^, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "But  come:  it  is  the  dinner 
hour.  Will  you  partake  of  my  vegetable  diet  ? " 

A  thing  so  matter-of-fact  as  an  invitation  to  dinner, 
even  when  the  fare  was  to  be  nothing  more  substantial 
than  vegetables  and  fruit,  compelled  us  forthwith  to 
remove  from  the  Hall  of  Fantasy.  As  we  passed  out 
of  the  portal,  we  met  the  spirits  of  several  persons,  who 
had  been  sent  thither  in  magnetic  sleep.  I  looked  back 
among  the  sculptured  pillars,  and  at  the  transformations 
of  the  gleaming  fountain,  and  almost  desired  that  the 
whole  of  life  might  be  spent  in  that  visionary  scene, 
where  the  actual  world,  with  its  hard  angles,  should  never 
rub  against  me,  and  only  be  viewed  through  the  medium 
of  pictured  windows.  But,  for  those  who  waste  all  their 
days  in  the  Hall  of  Fantasy,  good  Father  Miller's 
prophecy  is  already  accomplished,  and  the  solid  earth 
has  come  to  an  untimely  end.  Let  us  be  content,  there- 
fore, with  merely  an  occasional  visit,  for  the  sake  of 
spiritualizing  the  grossness  of  this  actual  life,  and  pre- 
figuring to  ourselves  a  state  in  which  the  Idea  shall  be 
all  in  all. 


THE  CELESTIAL   RAILROAD 

NOT  a  great  while  ago,  passing  through  the  gate  of 
dreams,  I  visited  that  region  of  the  earth  in  which 
lies  the  famous  city  of  Destruction.  It  interested  me 
much  to  learn  that,  by  the  public  spirit  of  some  of  the 
inhabitants,  a  railroad  has  recently  been  established 
between  this  populous  and  flourishing  town  and  the 
Celestial  City.  Having  a  little  time  upon  my  hands,  I 
resolved  to  gratify  a  liberal  curiosity  to  make  a  trip 
thither.  Accordingly,  one  fine  morning,  after  paying 
my  bill  at  the  hotel,  and  directing  the  porter  to  stow  my 
luggage  behind  a  coach,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  vehicle 
and  set  out  for  the  Station-house.  It  was  my  good 
fortune  to  enjoy  the  company  of  a  gentleman  —  one 
Mr.  Smooth-it-away  —  who,  though  he  had  never  actu- 
ally visited  the  Celestial  City,  yet  seemed  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  its  laws,  customs,  policy,  and  statistics,  as 
with  those  of  the  city  of  Destruction,  of  which  he  was 
a  native  townsman.  Being,  moreover,  a  director  of  the 
railroad  corporation,  and  one  of  its  largest  stockholders, 
he  had  it  in  his  power  to  give  me  all  desirable  informa- 
tion respecting  that  praiseworthy  enterprise. 

Our  coach  rattled  out  of  the  city,  and,  at  a  short  dis- 
tance from  its  outskirts,  passed  over  a  bridge,  of  elegant 
construction,  but  somewhat  too  slight,  as  I  imagined,  to 
sustain  any  considerable  weight.  On  both  sides  lay  an 
extensive  quagmire,  which  could  not  have  been  more 
disagreeable  either  to  sight  or  smell,  had  all  the  kennels 
of  the  earth  emptied  their  pollution  there. 

"  This,"  remarked  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  "  is  the  famous 
Slough  of  Despond  —  a  disgrace  to  all  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  and  the  greater,  that  it  might  so  easily  be  con- 
verted into  firm  ground." 

"  I  have  understood,"  said  I,  "  that  efforts  have  been 
1 66 


THE   CELESTIAL    RAILROAD      167 

made  for  that  purpose,  from  time  immemorial.  Bunyan 
mentions  that  above  twenty  thousand  cart-loads  of 
wholesome  instructions  had  been  thrown  in  here,  with- 
out effect." 

"  Very  probably !  —  and  what  effect  could  be  antici- 
pated from  such  unsubstantial  stuff?"  cried  Mr.  Smooth- 
it-away.  "  You  observe  this  convenient  bridge.  We 
obtained  a  sufficient  foundation  for  it  by  throwing  into 
the  Slough  some  editions  of  books  of  morality,  volumes 
of  French  philosophy  and  German  rationalism,  tracts, 
sermons,  and  essays  of  modern  clergymen,  extracts 
from  Plato,  Confucius,  and  various  Hindoo  sages,  to- 
gether with  a  few  ingenious  commentaries  upon  texts 
of  Scripture  —  all  of  which,  by  some  scientific  process, 
have  been  converted  into  a  mass  like  granite.  The 
whole  bog  might  be  filled  up  with  similar  matter." 

It  really  seemed  to  me,  however,  that  the  bridge 
vibrated  and  heaved  up  and  down  in  a  very  formidable 
manner ;  and,  spite  of  Mr.  Smooth-it-a way's  testimony 
to  the  solidity  of  its  foundation,  I  should  be  loth  to 
cross  it  in  a  crowded  omnibus ;  especially  if  each  pas- 
senger were  encumbered  with  as  heavy  luggage  as  that 
gentleman  and  myself.  Nevertheless,  we  got  over 
without  accident,  and  soon  found  ourselves  at  the 
Station-house.  This  very  neat  and  spacious  edifice  is 
erected  on  the  site  of  the  little  Wicket-Gate,  which  for- 
merly, as  all  old  pilgrims  will  recollect,  stood  directly 
across  the  highway,  and,  by  its  inconvenient  narrowness, 
was  a  great  obstruction  to  the  traveller  of  liberal  mind 
and  expansive  stomach.  The  reader  of  John  Bunyan 
will  be  glad  to  know,  that  Christian's  old  friend  Evan- 
gelist, who  was  accustomed  to  supply  each  pilgrim  with 
a  mystic  roll,  now  presides  at  the  ticket-office.  Some 
malicious  persons,  it  is  true,  deny  the  identity  of  this 
reputable  character  with  the  Evangelist  of  old  times, 
and  even  pretend  to  .bring  competent  evidence  of  an 
imposture.  Without  involving  myself  in  a  dispute,  I 
shall  merely  observe,  that  so  far  as  my  experience  goes, 
the  square  pieces  of  pasteboard,  now  delivered  to  pas- 
sengers, are  much  more  convenient  and  useful,  along 


i68  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

the  road,  than  the  antique  roll  of  parchment.  Whether 
they  will  be  as  readily  received  at  the  gate  of  the  Celes- 
tial City,  I  decline  giving  an  opinion. 

A  large  number  of  passengers  were  already  at  the 
Station-house,  awaiting  the  departure  of  the  cars.  By 
the  aspect  and  demeanor  of  these  persons,  it  was  easy 
to  judge  that  the  feelings  of  the  community  had  under- 
gone a  very  favorable  change,  in  reference  to  the 
celestial  pilgrimage.  It  would  have  done  Bunyan's 
heart  good  to  see  it.  Instead  of  a  lonely  and  ragged 
man,  with  a  huge  burthen  on  his  back,  plodding  along 
sorrowfully  on  foot,  while  the  whole  city  hooted  after 
him,  here  were  parties  of  the  first  gentry  and  most 
respectable  people  in  the  neighborhood,  setting  forth 
towards  the  Celestial  City,  as  cheerfully  as  if  the  pil- 
grimage were  merely  a  summer  tour.  Among  the 
gentlemen  were  characters  of  deserved  eminence,  mag- 
istrates, politicians,  and  men  of  wealth,  by  whose  ex- 
ample religion  could  not  but  be  greatly  recommended 
to  their  meaner  brethren.  In  the  ladies'  apartment, 
too,  I  rejoiced  to  distinguish  some  of  those  flowers 
of  fashionable  society,  who  are  so  well  fitted  to  adorn 
the  most  elevated  circles  of  the  Celestial  City.  There 
was  much  pleasant  conversation  about  the  news  of 
the  day,  topics  of  business,  politics,  or  the  lighter 
matters  of  amusement ;  while  religion,  though  indubi- 
tably the  main  thing  at  heart,  was  thrown  tastefully 
into  the  background.  Even  an  infidel  would  have  heard 
little  or  nothing  to  shock  his  sensibility. 

One  great  convenience  of  the  new  method  of  going 
on  pilgrimage,  I  must  not  forget  to  mention.  Our 
enormous  burthens,  instead  of  being  carried  on  our 
shoulders,  as  had  been  the  custom  of  old,  were  all 
snugly  deposited  in  the  baggage-car,  and,  as  I  was 
assured,  would  be  delivered  to  their  respective  owners 
at  the  journey's  end.  Another  thing,  likewise,  the 
benevolent  reader  will  be  delighted  to  understand.  It 
may  be  remembered  that  there  was  an  ancient  feud 
between  Prince  Beelzebub  and  the  keeper  of  the 
Wicket-Gate,  and  that  the  adherents  of  the  former  dis- 


\ 

THE    CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      169 

tinguished  personage  were  accustomed  to  shoot  deadly 
arrows  at  honest  pilgrims,  while  knocking  at  the  door. 
This  dispute,  much  to  the  credit,  as  well  of  the  illus- 
trious potentate  above-mentioned,  as  of  the  worthy 
and  enlightened  Directors  of  the  railroad,  has  been 
pacifically  arranged,  on  the  principle  of  mutual  com- 
promise. The  Prince's  subjects  are  now  pretty  numer- 
ously employed  about  the  Station-house,  some  in  taking 
care  of  the  baggage,  others  in  collecting  fuel,  feeding 
the  engines,  and  such  congenial  occupations ;  and  I  can 
conscientiously  affirm,  that  persons  more  attentive  to 
their  business,  more  willing  to  accommodate,  or  more 
generally  agreeable  to  the  passengers,  are  not  to  be 
found  on  any  railroad.  Every  good  heart  must  surely 
exult  at  so  satisfactory  an  arrangement  of  an  immemorial 
difficulty. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Great-heart  ?  "  inquired  I.  "  Beyond  a 
doubt,  the  Directors  have  engaged  that  famous  old 
champion  to  be  chief  conductor  on  the  railroad?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  dry 
cough.  "  He  was  offered  the  situation  of  brakeman ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  our  friend  Great-heart  has 
grown  preposterously  stiff  and  narrow  in  his  old  age. 
He  has  so  often  guided  pilgrims  over  the  road,  on 
foot,  that  he  considers  it  a  sin  to  travel  in  any  other 
fashion.  Besides,  the  old  fellow  had  entered  so  heartily 
into  the  ancient  feud  with  Prince  Beelzebub,  that  he 
would  have  been  perpetually  at  blows  or  ill  language 
with  some  of  the  Prince's  subjects,  and  thus  have 
embroiled  us  anew.  So,  on  the  whole,  we  were  not 
sorry  when  honest  Great-heart  went  off  to  the  Celestial 
City  in  a  huff,  and  left  us  at  liberty  to  choose  a  more 
suitable  and  accommodating  man.  Yonder  comes  the 
conductor  of  the  train.  You  will  probably  recognize 
him  at  once." 

The  engine  at  this  moment  took  its  station  in  advance 
of  the  cars,  looking,  I  must  confess,  much  more  like 
a  sort  of  mechanical  demon  that  would  hurry  us  to  the 
infernal  regions,  than  a  laudable  contrivance  for  smooth- 
ing our  way  to  the  Celestial  City.  On  its  top  sat  a 


170  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

personage  almost  enveloped  in  smoke  and  flame,  which 
—  not  to  startle  the  reader  —  appeared  to  gush  from  his 
own  mouth  and  stomach,  as  well  as  from  the  engine's 
brazen  abdomen. 

"  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ? "  cried  I.  "  What  on 
earth  is  this !  A  living  creature  ?  —  if  so,  he  is  own 
brother  to  the  engine  he  rides  upon ! " 

"Poh,  poh,  you  are  obtuse!  "  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away, 
with  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know  Apollyon,  Chris- 
tian's old  enemy,  with  whom  he  fought  so  fierce  a  battle 
in  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  ?  He  was  the  very  fellow 
to  manage  the  engine ;  and  so  we  have  reconciled  him  to 
the  custom  of  going  on  pilgrimage,  and  engaged  him  as 
chief  conductor." 

"  Bravo,  bravo ! "  exclaimed  I,  with  irrepressible 
enthusiasm,  "  this  shows  the  liberality  of  the  age ;  this 
proves,  if  anything  can,  that  all  musty  prejudices  are 
in  a  fair  way  to  be  obliterated.  And  how  will  Chris- 
tian rejoice  to  hear  of  this  happy  transformation  of  his 
old  antagonist !  I  promise  myself  great  pleasure 
in  informing  him  of  it,  when  we  reach  the  Celestial 
City." 

The  passengers  being  all  comfortably  seated,  we  now 
rattled  away  merrily,  accomplishing  a  greater  distance 
in  ten  minutes  than  Christian  probably  trudged  over  in 
a  day.  It  was  laughable  while  we  glanced  along,  as  it 
were,  at  the  tail  of  a  thunderbolt,  to  observe  two  dusty 
foot-travellers,  in  the  old  pilgrim-guise,  with  cockle-shell 
and  staff,  their  mystic  rolls  of  parchment  in  their  hands, 
and  their  intolerable  burthens  on  their  backs.  The 
preposterous  obstinacy  of  these  honest  people,  in  per- 
sisting to  groan  and  stumble  along  the  difficult  pathway, 
rather  than  take  advantage  of  modern  improvements, 
excited  great  mirth  among  our  wiser  brotherhood.  We 
greeted  the  two  pilgrims  with  many  pleasant  gibes  and 
a  roar  of  laughter ;  whereupon,  they  gazed  at  us  with 
such  woful  and  absurdly  compassionate  visages,  that 
our  merriment  grew  tenfold  more  obstreperous.  Apol- 
lyon, also,  entered  heartily  into  the  fun,  and  contrived  to 
flirt  the  smoke  and  flame  of  the  engine,  or  of  his  own 


THE   CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      171 

breath,  into  their  faces,  and  envelop  them  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  scalding  steam.  These  little  practical  jokes 
amused  us  mightily,  and  doubtless  afforded  the  pilgrims 
the  gratification  of  considering  themselves  martyrs. 

At  some  distance  from  the  railroad,  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away  pointed  to  a  large,  antique  edifice,  which,  he  ob- 
served, was  a  tavern  of  long  standing,  and  had  formerly 
been  a  noted  stopping-place  for  pilgrims.  In  Bunyan's 
road-book  it  is  mentioned  as  the  Interpreter's  House. 

"  I  have  long  had  a  curiosity  to  visit  that  old  man- 
sion," remarked  I. 

"  It  is  not  one  of  our  stations,  as  you  perceive,"  said 
my  companion.  "  The  keeper  was  violently  opposed  to 
the  railroad ;  and  well  he  might  be,  as  the  track  left  his 
house  of  entertainment  on  one  side,  and  thus  was  pretty 
certain  to  deprive  him  of  all  his  reputable  customers. 
But  the  footpath  still  passes  his  door ;  and  the  old 
gentleman  now  and  then  receives  a  call  from  some  simple 
traveller,  and  entertains  him  with  fare  as  old-fashioned 
as  himself." 

Before  our  talk  on  this  subject  came  to  a  conclusion, 
we  were  rushing  by  the  place  where  Christian's  burthen 
fell  from  his  shoulders,  at  the  sight  of  the  Cross.  This 
served  as  a  theme  for  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  Mr.  Live- 
for-the-world,  Mr.  Hide-sin-in-the-heart,  Mr.  Scaly-con- 
science, and  a  knot  of  gentlemen  from  the  town  of 
Shun-repentance,  to  descant  upon  the  inestimable  ad- 
vantages resulting  from  the  safety  of  our  baggage. 
Myself,  and  all  the  passengers  indeed,  joined  with  great 
unanimity  in  this  view  of  the  matter ;  for  our  burthens 
were  rich  in  many  things  esteemed  precious  through- 
out the  world ;  and,  especially,  we  each  of  us  possessed 
a  great  variety  of  favorite  Habits,  which  we  trusted 
would  not  be  out  of  fashion,  even  in  the  polite  circles  of 
the  Celestial  City.  It  would  have  been  a  sad  spectacle 
to  see  such  an  assortment  of  valuable  articles  tumbling 
into  the  sepulchre.  Thus  pleasantly  conversing  on  the 
favorable  circumstances  of  our  position,  as  compared 
with  those  of  past  pilgrims,  and  of  narrow-minded  ones 
at  the  present  day,  we  soon  found  ourselves  at  the  foot 


172  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

of  the  Hill  Difficulty.  Through  the  very  heart  of  this 
rocky  mountain  a  tunnel  has  been  constructed,  of  most 
admirable  architecture,  with  a  lofty  arch  and  a  spacious 
double-track ;  so  that,  unless  the  earth  and  rocks  should 
chance  to  crumble  down,  it  will  remain  an  eternal  monu- 
ment of  the  builder's  skill  and  enterprise.  It  is  a  great 
though  incidental  advantage,  that  the  materials  from  the 
heart  of  the  Hill  Difficulty  have  been  employed  in  fill- 
ing up  the  Valley  of  Humiliation;  thus  obviating  the 
necessity  of  descending  into  that  disagreeable  and 
unwholesome  hollow. 

"  This  is  a  wonderful  improvement,  indeed,"  said  I. 
"  Yet  I  should  have  been  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  visit 
the  Palace  Beautiful,  and  be  introduced  to  the  charming 
young  ladies  —  Miss  Prudence,  Miss  Piety,  Miss  Charity, 
and  the  rest  —  who  have  the  kindness  to  entertain  pil- 
grims there." 

"Young  ladies !"  cried  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  as  soon 
as  he  could  speak  for  laughing.  "  And  charming  young 
ladies !  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  they  are  old  maids,  every 
soul  of  them  —  prim,  starched,  dry,  and  angular- — and 
not  one  of  them,  I  will  venture  to  say,  has  altered  so 
much  as  the  fashion  of  her  gown  since  the  days  of 
Christian's  pilgrimage." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  I,  much  comforted,  "then  I  can 
very  readily  dispense  with  their  acquaintance." 

The  respectable  Apollyon  was  now  putting  on  the 
steam  at  a  prodigious  rate ;  anxious,  perhaps,  to  get  rid 
of  the  unpleasant  reminiscences  connected  with  the  spot 
where  he  had  so  disastrously  encountered  Christian. 
Consulting  Mr.  Bunyan's  road-book,  I  perceived  that  we 
must  now  be  within  a  few  miles  of  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  Death ;  into  which  doleful  region,  at  our 
present  speed,  we  should  plunge  much  sooner  than 
seemed  at  all  desirable.  In  truth,  I  expected  nothing 
better  than  to  find  myself  in  the  ditch  on  one  side,  or 
the  quag  on  the  other.  But,  on  communicating  my 
apprehensions  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  he  assured  me 
that  the  difficulties  of  this  passage,  even  in  its  worst 
condition,  had  been  vastly  exaggerated,  and  that,  in  its 


THE    CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      173 

present  state  of  improvement,  I  might  consider  myself 
as  safe  as  on  any  railroad  in  Christendom. 

Even  while  we  were  speaking,  the  train  shot  into  the 
entrance  of  this  dreaded  Valley.  Though  I  plead 
guilty  to  some  foolish  palpitations  of  the  heart,  during 
our  headlong  rush  over  the  causeway  here  constructed, 
yet  it  were  unjust  to  withhold  the  highest  encomiums  on 
the  boldness  of  its  original  conception,  and  the  ingenuity 
of  those  who  executed  it.  It  was  gratifying,  likewise, 
to  observe  how  much  care  had  been  taken  to  dispel  the 
everlasting  gloom,  and  supply  the  defect  of  cheerful 
sunshine;  not  a  ray  of  which  has  ever  penetrated 
among  these  awful  shadows.  For  this  purpose,  trie 
inflammable  gas,  which  exudes  plentifully  from  the  soil, 
is  collected  by  means  of  pipes,  and  thence  communicated 
to  a  quadruple  row  of  lamps,  along  the  whole  extent  of 
the  passage.  Thus  a  radiance  has  been  created,  even 
out  of  the  fiery  and  sulphurous  curse  that  rests  forever 
upon  the  Valley ;  a  radiance  hurtful,  however,  to  the 
eyes,  and  somewhat  bewildering,  as  I  discovered  by  the 
changes  which  it  wrought  in  the  visages  of  my  com- 
panions. In  this  respect,  as  compared  with  natural  day- 
light, there  is  the  same  difference  as  between  truth  and 
falsehood  ;  but  if  the  reader  have  ever  travelled  through 
the  dark  Valley,  he  will  have  learned  to  be  thankful  for 
any  light  that  he  could  get ;  if  not  from  the  sky  above, 
then  from  the  blasted  soil  beneath.  Such  was  the  red 
brilliancy  of  these  lamps,  that  they  appeared  to  build 
walls  of  fire  on  both  sides  of  the  track,  between  which 
we  held  our  course  at  lightning  speed,  while  a  rever- 
berating thunder  filled  the  Valley  with  its  echoes.  Had 
the  engine  run  off  the  track  —  a  catastrophe,  it  is  whis- 
pered, by  no  means  unprecedented  —  the  bottomless  pit, 
if  there  be  any  such  place,  would  undoubtedly  have 
received  us.  Just  as  some  dismal  fooleries  of  this 
nature  had  made  my  heart  quake,  there  came  a  tremen- 
dous shriek,  careering  along  the  Valley  as  if  a  thousand 
devils  had  burst  their  lungs  to  utter  it,  but  which  proved 
to  be  merely  the  whistle  of  the  engine,  on  arriving  at  a 
stopping-place. 


174  MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

The  spot  where  we  had  now  paused  is  the  same  that 
our  friend  Bunyan  —  truthful  man,  but  infected  with 
many  fantastic  notions  —  has  designated,  in  terms  plainer 
than  I  like  to  repeat,  as  the  mouth  of  the  infernal  region. 
This,  however,  must  be  a  mistake ;  inasmuch  as  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away,  while  we  remained  in  the  smoky  and 
lurid  cavern,  took  occasion  to  prove  that  Tophet  has  not 
even  a  metaphorical  existence.  The  place,  he  assured 
us,  is  no  other  than  the  crater  of  a  half-extinct  volcano, 
in  which  the  Directors  had  caused  forges  to  be  set  up, 
for  the  manufacture  of  railroad  iron.  Hence,  also,  is 
obtained  a  plentiful  supply  of  fuel  for  the  use  of  the 
engines.  Whoever  had  gazed  into  the  dismal  obscurity 
of  the  broad  cavern-mouth,  whence  ever  and  anon  darted 
huge  tongues  of  dusky  flame,  —  and  had  seen  the  strange, 
half-shaped  monsters,  and  visions  of  faces  horribly  gro- 
tesque, into  which  the  smoke  seemed  to  wreathe  itself, — 
and  had  heard  the  awful  murmurs,  and  shrieks,  and  deep 
shuddering  whispers  of  the  blast,  sometimes  forming 
themselves  into  words  almost  articulate,  —  would  have 
seized  upon  Mr.  Smooth-it-away's  comfortable  explana- 
tion, as  greedily  as  we  did.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
cavern,  moreover,  were  unlovely  personages,  —  dark, 
smoke-begrimed,  generally  deformed,  with  misshapen 
feet,  and  a  glow  of  dusky  redness  in  their  eyes ;  as  if 
their  hearts  had  caught  fire,  and  were  blazing  out  of  the 
upper  windows.  It  struck  me  as  a  peculiarity,  that  the 
laborers  at  the  forge,  and  those  who  brought  fuel  to 
the  engine,  when  they  began  to  draw  short  breath,  posi- 
tively emitted  smoke  from  their  mouth  and  nostrils. 

Among  the  idlers  about  the  train,  most  of  whom  were 
puffing  cigars  which  they  had  lighted  at  the  flame  of  the 
crater,  I  was  perplexed  to  notice  several  who,  to  my 
certain  knowledge,  had  heretofore  set  forth  by  railroad 
for  the  Celestial  City.  They  looked  dark,  wild,  and 
smoky,  with  a  singular  resemblance,  indeed,  to  the 
native  inhabitants ;  like  whom,  also,  they  had  a  dis- 
agreeable propensity  to  ill-natured  gibes  and  sneers, 
the  habit  of  which  had  wrought  a  settled  contortion  of 
their  visages.  Having  been  on  speaking  terms  with 


THE   CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      175 

one  of  these  persons — an  indolent,  good-for-nothing 
fellow,  who  went  by  the  name  of  Take-it-easy  —  I  called 
him,  and  inquired  what  was  his  business  there. 

"  Did  you  not  start,"  said  I,  "  for  the  Celestial 
City?" 

"  That 's  a  fact,"  said  Mr.  Take-it-easy,  carelessly 
puffing  some  smoke  into  my  eyes.  "  But  I  heard  such 
bad  accounts,  that  I  never  took  pains  to  climb  the  hill 
on  which  the  city  stands.  No  business  doing  —  no  fun 
going  on  —  nothing  to  drink,  and  no  smoking  allowed 
—  and  a  thrumming  of  church-music  from  morning  till 
night !  I  would  not  stay  in  such  a  place,  if  they  offered 
me  house-room  and  living  free." 

"  But,  my  good  Mr.  Take-it-easy,"  cried  I,  "  why  take 
up  your  residence  here,  of  all  places  in  the  world  ? " 

"Oh,"  said  the  loafer, with  a  grin,  "it  is  very  warm 
hereabouts,  and  I  meet  with  plenty  of  old  acquaint- 
ances, and  altogether  the  place  suits  me.  I  hope  to 
see  you  back  again,  some  day  soon.  A  pleasant 
journey  to  you  !  " 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  bell  of  the  engine  rang, 
and  we  dashed  away,  after  dropping  a  few  passengers, 
but  receiving  no  new  ones.  Rattling  onward  through 
the  Valley,  we  were  dazzled  with  the  fiercely  gleaming 
gas-lamps,  as  before.  But  sometimes,  in  the  dark  of 
intense  brightness,  grim  faces,  that  bore  the  aspect  and 
expression  of  individual  sins,  or  evil  passions,  seemed 
to  thrust  themselves  through  the  veil  of  light,  glaring 
upon  us,  and  stretching  forth  a  great  dusky  hand,  as 
if  to  impede  our  progress.  I  almost  thought,  that  they 
were  my  own  sins  that  appalled  me  there.  These  were 
freaks  of  imagination — nothing  more,  certainly, — mere 
delusions,  which  I  ought  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  —  but, 
all  through  the  Dark  Valley,  I  was  tormented,  and  pes- 
tered, and  dolefully  bewildered,  with  the  same  kind  of 
waking  dreams.  The  mephitic  gases  of  that  region 
intoxicate  the  brain.  As  the  light  of  natural  day,  how- 
ever, began  to  struggle  with  the  glow  of  the  lanterns, 
these  vain  imaginations  lost  their  vividness,  and  finally 
vanished  with  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  greeted  our 


176  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

escape  from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  Ere 
we  had  gone  a  mile  beyond  it,  I  could  well-nigh  have 
taken  my  oath,  that  this  whole  gloomy  passage  was  a 
dream. 

At  the  end  of  the  Valley,  as  John  Bimyan  mentions, 
is  a  cavern,  where,  in  his  days,  dwelt  two  cruel  giants, 
Pope  and  Pagan,  who  had  strewn  the  ground  about 
their  residence  with  the  bones  of  slaughtered  pilgrims. 
These  vile  old  troglodytes  are  no  longer  there ;  but  in 
their  deserted  cave  another  terrible  giant  has  thrust 
himself,  and  makes  it  his  business  to  seize  upon  honest 
travellers,  and  fat  them  for  his  table  with  plentiful  meals 
of  smoke,  mist,  moonshine,  raw  potatoes,  and  sawdust. 
He  is  a  German  by  birth,  and  is  called  Giant  Transcen- 
dentalist ;  but  as  to  his  form,  his  features,  his  substance, 
and  his  nature  generally,  it  is  the  chief  peculiarity  of  this 
huge  miscreant,  that  neither  he  for  himself,  nor  anybody 
for  him,  has  ever  been  able  to  describe  them.  As  we 
rushed  by  the  cavern's  mouth,  we  caught  a  hasty  glimpse 
of  him,  looking  somewhat  like  an  ill-proportioned  figure, 
but  considerably  more  like  a  heap  of  fog  and  duskiness. 
He  shouted  after  us,  but  in  so  strange  a  phraseology, 
that  we  knew  not  what  he  meant,  nor  whether  to  be 
encouraged  or  affrighted. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  when  the  train  thundered  into 
the  ancient  city  of  Vanity,  where  Vanity  Fair  is  still  at 
the  height  of  prosperity,  and  exhibits  an  epitome  of  what- 
ever is  brilliant,  gay,  and  fascinating,  beneath  the  sun. 
As  I  purposed  to  make  a  considerable  stay  here,  it 
gratified  me  to  learn  that  there  is  no  longer  the  want 
of  harmony  between  the  townspeople  and  pilgrims, 
which  impelled  the  former  to  such  lamentably  mis- 
taken measures  as  the  persecution  of  Christian,  and  the 
fiery  martyrdom  of  Faithful.  On  the  contrary,  as  the 
new  railroad  brings  with  it  great  trade  and  a  constant 
influx  of  strangers,  the  lord  of  Vanity  Fair  is  its  chief 
patron,  and  the  capitalists  of  the  city  are  among  the 
largest  stockholders.  Many  passengers  stop  to  take 
their  pleasure  or  make  their  profit  in  the  Fair,  instead 
of  going  onward  to  the  Celestial  City.  Indeed,  such 


THE    CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      177 

are  the  charms  of  the  place,  that  people  often  affirm  it 
to  be  the  true  and  only  heaven ;  stoutly  contending  that 
there  is  no  other,  that  those  who  seek  further  are  mere 
dreamers,  and  that,  if  the  fabled  brightness  of  the  Ce- 
lestial City  lay  but  a  bare  mile  beyond  the  gates  of 
Vanity,  they  would  not  be  fools  enough  to  go  thither. 
Without  subscribing  to  these,  perhaps  exaggerated  en- 
comiums, I  can  truly  say,  that  my  abode  in  the  city  was 
mainly  agreeable,  and  my  intercourse  with  the  inhabit- 
ants productive  of  much  amusement  and  instruction. 

Being  naturally  of  a  serious  turn,  my  attention  was 
directed  to  the  solid  advantages  derivable  from  a  resi- 
dence here,  rather  than  to  the  effervescent  pleasures, 
which  are  the  grand  object  with  too  many  visitants. 
The  Christian  reader,  if  he  have  had  no  accounts  of 
the  city  later  than  Bunyan's  time,  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  almost  every  street  has  its  church,  and  that 
the  reverend  clergy  are  nowhere  held  in  higher  respect 
than  at  Vanity  Fair.  And  well  do  they  deserve  such 
honorable  estimation;  for  the  maxims  of  wisdom  and 
virtue  which  fall  from  their  lips,  come  from  as  deep  a 
spiritual  source,  and  tend  to  as  lofty  a  religious  aim,  as 
those  of  the  sagest  philosophers  of  old.  In  justification 
of  this  high  praise,  I  need  only  mention  the  names  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Shallow-deep ;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stumble-at- 
Truth;  that  fine  old  clerical  character,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
This-to-day,  who  expects  shortly  to  resign  his  pulpit  to 
the  Rev.  Mr.  That-to-morrow  ;  together  with  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bewilderment ;  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clog-the-spirit ;  and, 
last  and  greatest,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wind-of-doctrine.  The 
labors  of  these  eminent  divines  are  aided  by  those  of 
innumerable  lecturers,  who  diffuse  such  a  various  pro- 
fundity, in  all  subjects  of  human  or  celestial  science, 
that  any  man  may  acquire  an  omnigenous  erudition, 
without  the  trouble  of  even  learning  to  read.  Thus 
literature  is  etherealized  by  assuming  for  its  medium  the 
human  voice  ;  and  knowledge,  depositing  all  its  heavier 
particles  —  except,  doubtless,  its  gold  — becomes  exhaled 
into  a  sound,  which  forthwith  steals  into  the  ever  open 
ear  of  the  community.  These  ingenious  methods  con- 


178  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

stitute  a  sort  of  machinery,  by  which  thought  and  study 
are  done  to  every  person's  hand,  without  his  putting 
himself  to  the  slightest  inconvenience  in  the  matter. 
There  is  another  species  of  machine  for  the  wholesale 
manufacture  of  individual  morality.  This  excellent 
result  is  effected  by  societies  for  all  manner  of  virtuous 
purposes  ;  with  which  a  man  has  merely  to  connect  him- 
self, throwing,  as  it  were,  his  quota  of  virtue  into  the 
common  stock ;  and  the  president  and  directors  will 
take  care  that  the  aggregate  amount  be  well  applied. 
All  these,  and  other  wonderful  improvements  in  ethics, 
religion,  and  literature,  being  made  plain  to  my  compre- 
hension, by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  inspired 
me  with  a  vast  admiration  of  Vanity  Fair. 

It  would  fill  a  volume,  in  an  age  of  pamphlets,  were 
I  to  record  all  my  observations  in  this  great  capital  of 
human  business  and  pleasure.  There  was  an  unlimited 
range  of  society  —  the  powerful,  the  wise,  the  witty,  and 
the  famous  in  every  walk  of  life  —  princes,  presidents, 
poets,  generals,  artists,  actors,  and  philanthropists,  all 
making  their  own  market  at  the  Fair,  and  deeming  no 
price  too  exorbitant  for  such  commodities  as  hit  their 
fancy.  It  was  well  worth  one's  while,  even  if  he  had 
no  idea  of  buying  or  selling,  to  loiter  through  the 
bazaars,  and  observe  the  various  sorts  of  traffic  that 
were  going  forward. 

Some  of  the  purchasers,  I  thought,  made  very  foolish 
bargains.  For  instance,  a  young  man,  having  inherited 
a  splendid  fortune,  laid  out  a  considerable  portion  of  it 
in  the  purchase  of  diseases,  and  finally  spent  all  the  rest 
for  a  heavy  lot  of  repentance  and  a  suit  of  rags.  A 
very  pretty  girl  bartered  a  heart  as  clear  as  crystal,  and 
which  seemed  her  most  valuable  possession,  for  another 
jewel  of  the  same  kind,  but  so  worn  and  defaced  as  to 
be  utterly  worthless.  In  one  shop,  there  were  a  great 
many  crowns  of  laurel  and  myrtle,  which  soldiers, 
authors,  statesmen,  and  various  other  people  pressed 
eagerly  to  buy  ;  some  purchased  these  paltry  wreaths 
with  their  lives ;  others  by  a  toilsome  servitude  of 
years ;  and  many  sacrificed  whatever  was  most  valuable, 


THE    CELESTIAL    RAILROAD      179 

yet  finally  slunk  away  without  the  crown.  There  was  a 
sort  of  stock  or  scrip,  called  Conscience,  which  seemed  to 
be  in  great  demand,  and  would  purchase  almost  anything. 
Indeed,  few  rich  commodities  were  to  be  obtained  with- 
out paying  a  heavy  sum  in  this  particular  stock,  and  a 
man's  business  was  seldom  very  lucrative,  unless  he 
knew  precisely  when  and  how  to  throw  his  hoard  of 
Conscience  into  the  market.  Yet,  as  this  stock  was  the 
only  thing  of  permanent  value,  whoever  parted  with  it 
was  sure  to  find  himself  a  loser,  in  the  long  run.  Sev- 
eral of  the  speculations  were  of  a  questionable  char- 
acter. Occasionally,  a  member  of  Congress  recruited 
his  pocket  by  the  sale  of  his  constituents ;  and  I  was 
assured  that  public  officers  have  often  sold  their  country 
at  very  moderate  prices.  Thousands  sold  their  happi- 
ness for  a  whim.  Gilded  chains  were  in  great  demand, 
and  purchased  with  almost  any  sacrifice.  In  truth, 
those  who  desired,  according  to  the  old  adage,  to  sell 
anything  valuable  for  a  song,  might  find  customers  all 
over  the  Fair ;  and  there  were  innumerable  messes  of 
pottage,  piping  hot,  for  such  as  chose  to  buy  them  with 
their  birthrights.  A  few  articles,  however,  could  not  be 
found  genuine  at  Vanity  Fair. .  If  a  customer  wished  to 
renew  his  stock  of  youth,  the  dealers  offered  him  a  set 
of  false  teeth  and  an  auburn  wig  ;  if  he  demanded  peace 
of  mind,  they  recommended  opium  or  a  brandy-bottle. 

Tracts  of  land  and  golden  mansions,  situate  in  the 
Celestial  City,  were  often  exchanged,  at  very  disadvan- 
tageous rates,  for  a  few  years'  lease  of  small,  dismal,  in- 
convenient tenements  in  Vanity  Fair.  Prince  Beelzebub 
himself  took  great  interest  in  this  sort  of  traffic,  and 
sometimes  condescended  to  meddle  with  smaller  matters. 
I  once  had  the  pleasure  to  see  him  bargaining  with  a 
miser  for  his  soul,  which,  after  much  ingenious  skirmish- 
ing on  both  sides,  his  Highness  succeeded  in  obtaining 
at  about  the  value  of  sixpence.  The  Prince  remarked, 
with  a  smile,  that  he  was  a  loser  by  the  transaction. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  walked  the  streets  of  Vanity,  my 
manners  and  deportment  became  more  and  more  like 
those  of  the  inhabitants.  The  place  began  to  seem  like 


i8o  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

home ;  the  idea  of  pursuing  my  travels  to  the  Celestial 
City  was  almost  obliterated  from  my  mind.  I  was 
reminded  of  it,  however,  by  the  sight  of  the  same  pair 
of  simple  pilgrims  at  whom  we  had  laughed  so  heartily, 
when  Apollyon  puffed  smoke  and  steam  into  their  faces, 
at  the  commencement  of  our  journey.  There  they 
stood  amid  the  densest  bustle  of  Vanity  —  the  dealers 
offering  them  their  purple,  and  fine  linen,  and  jewels; 
the  men  of  wit  and  humor  gibing  at  them ;  a  pair  of 
buxom  ladies  ogling  them  askance ;  while  the  benevo- 
lent Mr.  Smooth-it-away  whispered  some  of  his  wisdom  at 
their  elbows,  and  pointed  to  a  newly  erected  temple  — 
but  there  were  these  worthy  simpletons,  making  the 
scene  look  wild  and  monstrous,  merely  by  their  sturdy 
repudiation  of  all  part  in  its  business  or  pleasures. 

One  of  them  —  his  name  was  Stick-to-the-right  —  per- 
ceived in  my  face,  I  suppose,  a  species  of  sympathy  and 
almost  admiration,  which,  to  my  own  great  surprise,  I  could 
not  help  feeling  for  this  pragmatic  couple.  It  prompted 
him  to  address  me. 

"  Sir,"  inquired  he,  with  a  sad,  yet  mild  and  kindly 
voice,  "  do  you  call  yourself  a  pilgrim  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "my  right  to  that  appellation  is 
indubitable.  I  am  merely  a  sojourner  here  in  Vanity 
Fair,  being  bound  to  the  Celestial  City  by  the  new  rail- 
road." 

"  Alas,  friend,"  rejoined  Mr.  Stick-to-the-right,  "  I  do 
assure  you,  and  beseech  you  to  receive  the  truth  of  my 
words,  that  that  whole  concern  is  a  bubble.  You  may 
travel  on  it  all  your  lifetime,  were  you  to  live  thousands 
of  years,  and  yet  never  get  beyond  the  limits  of  Vanity 
Fair!  Yea;  though  you  should  deem  yourself  entering 
the  gates  of  the  Blessed  City,  it  will  be  nothing  but  a 
miserable  delusion." 

"  The  Lord  of  the  Celestial  City,"  began  the  other 
pilgrim,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Foot-it-to-Heaven,  "  has 
refused,  and  will  ever  refuse,  to  grant  an  act  of  incor- 
poration for  this  railroad ;  and  unless  that  be  obtained, 
no  passenger  can  ever  hope  to  enter  his  dominions. 
Wherefore,  every  man  who  buys  a  ticket  must  lay  his 


THE   CELESTIAL    RAILROAD      181 

account  with  losing  the  purchase-money  —  which  is  the 
value  of  his  own  soul." 

"  Poh,  nonsense !  "  said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  taking 
my  arm  and  leading  me  off,  "  these  fellows  ought  to  be 
indicted  for  a  libel.  If  the  law  stood  as  it  once  did  in 
Vanity  Fair,  we  should  see  them  grinning  through  the 
iron  bars  of  the  prison  windows." 

This  incident  made  a  considerable  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  contributed  with  other  circumstances  to  indis- 
pose me  to  a  permanent  residence  in  the  city  of  Vanity ; 
although,  of  course,  I  was  not  simple  enough  to  give  up 
my  original  plan  of  gliding  along  easily  and  commodi- 
ously  by  railroad.  Still,  I  grew  anxious  to  be  gone. 
There  was  one  strange  thing  that  troubled  me :  amid 
the  occupations  or  amusements  of  the  fair,  nothing  was 
more  common  than  for  a  person  —  whether  at  a  feast, 
theatre,  or  church,  or  trafficking  for  wealth  and  honors, 
or  whatever  he  might  be  doing,  and  however  unseason- 
able the  interruption  —  suddenly  to  vanish  like  a  soap- 
bubble,  and  be  never  more  seen  of  his  fellows ;  and  so 
accustomed  were  the  latter  to  such  little  accidents,  that 
they  went  on  with  their  business,  as  quietly  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  But  it  was  otherwise  with  me. 

Finally,  after  a  pretty  long  residence  at  the  Fair,  I 
resumed  my  journey  towards  the  Celestial  City,  still 
with  Mr.  Smooth-it-away  at  my  side.  At  a  short  dis- 
tance beyond  the  suburbs  of  Vanity,  we  passed  the 
ancient  silver  mine,  of  which  Demas  was  the  first  dis- 
coverer, and  which  is  now  wrought  to  great  advantage, 
supplying  nearly  all  the  coined  currency  of  the  world. 
A  little  further  onward  was  the  spot  where  Lot's  wife 
had  stood  for  ages,  under  the  semblance  of  a  pillar  of 
salt  Curious  travellers  have  long  since  carried  it  away 
piecemeal.  Had  all  regrets  been  punished  as  rigorously 
as  this  poor  dame's  were,  my  yearning  for  the  relin- 
quished delights  of  Vanity  Fair  might  have  produced  a 
similar  change  in  my  own  corporeal  substance,  and  left 
me  a  warning  to  future  pilgrims. 

The  next  remarkable  object  was  a  large  edifice,  con- 
structed of  moss-grown  stone,  but  in  a  modern  and  airy 


182  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

style  of  architecture.  The  engine  came  to  a  pause  in 
its  vicinity  with  the  usual  tremendous  shriek. 

"This  was  formerly  the  castle  of  the  redoubted  Giant 
Despair,"  observed  Mr.  Smooth-it-away ;  "  but,  since 
his  death,  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  has  repaired  it,  and  now 
keeps  an  excellent  house  of  entertainment  here.  It  is 
one  of  our  stopping-places." 

"  It  seems  but  slightly  put  together,"  remarked  I, 
looking  at  the  frail,  yet  ponderous  walls.  "I  do  not 
envy  Mr.  Flimsy-faith  his  habitation.  Some  day  it  will 
thunder  down  upon  the  heads  of  the  occupants." 

"  We  shall  escape,  at  all  events,"  said  Mr.  Smooth-it- 
away  ;  "  for  Apollyon  is  putting  on  the  steam  again." 

The  road  now  plunged  into  a  gorge  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains,  and  traversed  the  field  where,  in  former 
ages,  the  blind  men  wandered  and  stumbled  among  the 
tombs.  One  of  these  ancient  tomb-stones  had  been 
thrust  across  the  track,  by  some  malicious  person,  and 
gave  the  train  of  cars  a  terrible  jolt.  Far  up  the  rugged 
side  of  a  mountain,  I  perceived  a  rusty  iron  door,  half 
overgrown  with  bushes  and  creeping  plants,  but  with 
smoke  issuing  from  its  crevices. 

"  Is  that,"  inquired  I,  "  the  very  door  in  the  hillside, 
which  the  shepherds  assured  Christian  was  a  byway  to 
Hell  ? " 

"That  was  a  joke  on  the  part  of  the  shepherds," 
said  Mr.  Smooth-it-away,  with  a  smile.  "  It  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  door  of  a  cavern,  which  they 
use  as  a  smoke-house  for  the  preparation  of  mutton 
hams." 

My  recollections  of  the  journey  are  now,  for  a  little 
space,  dim  and  confused,  inasmuch  as  a  singular  drowsi- 
ness here  overcame  me,  owing  to  the  fact  that  we  were 
passing  over  the  Enchanted  Ground,  the  air  of  which 
encourages  a  disposition  to  sleep.  I  awoke,  however, 
as  soon  as  we  crossed  the  borders  of  the  pleasant  land 
of  Beulah.  All  the  passengers  were  rubbing  their  eyes, 
comparing  watches,  and  congratulating  one  another  on 
the  prospect  of  arriving  so  seasonably  at  the  journey's 
end.  The  sweet  breezes  of  this  happy  clime  came  re- 


THE   CELESTIAL   RAILROAD      183 

freshingly  to  our  nostrils  ;  we  beheld  the  glimmering 
gush  of  silver  fountains,  overhung  by  trees  of  beautiful 
foliage  and  delicious  fruit,  which  were  propagated  by 
grafts  from  the  celestial  gardens.  Once,  as  we  dashed 
onward  like  a  hurricane,  there  was  a  flutter  of  wings, 
and  the  bright  appearance  of  an  angel  in  the  air,  speed- 
ing forth  on  some  heavenly  mission.  The  engine  now 
announced  the  close  vicinity  of  the  final  Station  House, 
by  one  last  and  horrible  scream,  in  which  there  seemed 
to  be  distinguishable  every  kind  of  wailing  and  woe, 
and  bitter  fierceness  of  wrath,  all  mixed  up  with  the 
wild  laughter  of  a  devil  or  a  madman.  Throughout  our 
journey,  at  every  stopping-place,  Apollyon  had  exer- 
cised his  ingenuity  in  screwing  the  most  abominable 
sounds  out  of  the  whistle  of  the  steam-engine ;  but  in 
this  closing  effort  he  outdid  himself,  and  created  an 
infernal  uproar,  which,  besides  disturbing  the  peaceful 
inhabitants  of  Beulah,  must  have  sent  its  discord  even 
through  the  celestial  gates. 

While  the  horrid  clamor  was  still  ringing  in  our  ears, 
we  heard  an  exulting  strain,  as  if  a  thousand  instruments 
of  music,  with  height,  and  depth,  and  sweetness  in  their 
tones,  at  once  tender  and  triumphant,  were  struck  in 
unison,  to  greet  the  approach  of  some  illustrious  hero, 
who  had  fought  the  good  fight  and  won  a  glorious 
victory,  and  was  come  to  lay  aside  his  battered  arms  for- 
ever. Looking  to  ascertain  what  might  be  the  occasion 
of  this  glad  harmony,  I  perceived,  on  alighting  from  the 
cars,  that  a  multitude  of  shining  ones  had  assembled  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  to  welcome  two  poor  pilgrims, 
who  were  just  emerging  from  its  depths.  They  were 
the  same  whom  Apollyon  and  ourselves  had  persecuted 
with  taunts  and  gibes,  and  scalding  steam,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  our  journey  —  the  same  whose  unworldly 
aspect  and  impressive  words  had  stirred  my  conscience, 
amid  the  wild  revellers  of  Vanity  Fair. 

"  How  amazingly  well  those  men  have  got  on ! " 
cried  I  to  Mr.  Smooth-it-away.  "  I  wish  we  were 
secure  of  as  good  a  reception." 

"Never  fear  —  never   fear!"    answered   my   friend. 


1 84  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  Come  —  make  haste ;  the  ferry-boat  will  be  off  di- 
rectly ;  and  in  three  minutes  you  will  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  No  doubt  you  will  find  coaches  to 
carry  you  up  to  the  city  gates." 

A  steam  ferry-boat,  the  last  improvement  on  this 
important  route,  lay  at  the  river  side,  puffing,  snorting, 
and  emitting  all  those  other  disagreeable  utterances, 
which  betoken  the  departure  to  be  immediate.  I  hurried 
on  board  with  the  rest  of  the  passengers,  most  of  whom 
were  in  great  perturbation ;  some  bawling  out  for  their 
baggage;  some  tearing  their  hair  and  exclaiming  that  the 
boat  would  explode  or  sink ;  some  already  pale  with  the 
heaving  of  the  stream ;  some  gazing  affrighted  at  the  ugly 
aspect  of  the  steersman ;  and  some  still  dizzy  with  the 
slumberous  influences  of  the  Enchanted  Ground.  Look- 
ing back  to  the  shore,  I  was  amazed  to  discern  Mr. 
Smooth-it-away  waving  his  hand  in  token  of  farewell ! 

"  Don't  you  go  over  to  the  Celestial  City  ? "  ex- 
claimed I. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  answered  he,  with  a  queer  smile,  and  that 
same  disagreeable  contortion  of  visage  which  I  had 
remarked  in  the  inhabitants  of  the  Dark  Valley.  "  Oh, 
no !  I  have  come  thus  far  only  for  the  sake  of  your 
pleasant  company.  Good  bye!  We  shall  meet  again." 

And  then  did  my  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Smooth-it-away, 
laugh  outright ;  in  the  midst  of  which  cachinnation,  a 
smoke-wreath  issued  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  while 
a  twinkle  of  lurid  flame  darted  out  of  either  eye,  prov- 
ing indubitably  that  his  heart  was  all  of  a  red  blaze. 
The  impudent  fiend !  To  deny  the  existence  of  Tophet, 
when  he  felt  its  fiery  tortures  raging  within  his  breast ! 
I  rushed  to  the  side  of  the  boat,  intending  to  fling  my- 
self on  shore.  But  the  wheels,  as  they  began  their 
revolutions,  threw  a  dash  of  spray  over  me,  so  cold  —  so 
deadly  cold,  with  the  chill  that  will  never  leave  those 
waters,  until  Death  be  drowned  in  his  own  river  —  that, 
with  a  shiver  and  a  heart-quake,  I  awoke.  Thank 
Heaven,  it  was  a  Dream ! 


/  THE   PROCESSION   OF   LIFE 

/T  IFE  figures  itself  to  me  as  a  festal  or  funereal  pro- 
I  v  cession.  All  of  us  have  our  places,  and  are  to  . 
move  onward  under  the  direction  of  the  Chief  Marshal/ 
The  grand  difficulty  results  from  the  invariably  mistaken 
principles  on  which  the  deputy  marshals  seek  to  arrange 
this  immense  concourse  of  people,  so  much  more  numer- 
ous than  those  that  train  their  interminable  length 
through  streets  and  highways  in  times  of  political  excite- 
ment. Their  scheme  is  ancient,  far  beyond  the  memory 
of  man,  or  even  the  record  of  history,  and  has  hitherto 
been  very  little  modified  by  the  innate  sense  of  some- 
thing wrong,  and  the  dim  perception  of  better  methods, 
that  have  disquieted  all  the  ages  through  which  the  pro- 
cession has  taken  its  march.  Its  members  are  classified 
by  the  merest  external  circumstances,  and  thus  are  more 
certain  to  be  thrown  out  of  their  true  positions  than  if 
no  principle  of  arrangement  were  attempted.  In  one 
part  of  the  procession  we  see  men  of  landed  estate  or 
monied  capital,  gravely  keeping  each  other  company, 
for  the  preposterous  reason  that  they  chance  to  have  a 
similar  standing  in  the  tax-gatherer's  book.  Trades  and 
professions  march  together,  with  scarcely  a  more  real 
bond  of  union.  In  this  manner,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
people  are  disentangled  from  the  mass,  and  separated 
into  various  classes  according  to  certain  apparent  rela- 
tions ;  all  have  some  artificial  badge,  which  the  world, 
and  themselves  among  the  first,  learn  to  consider  as  a 
genuine  characteristic.  Fixing  our  attention  on  such 
outside  shows  of  similarity  or  difference,  we  lose  sight  of 
those  realities  by  which  nature,  fortune,  fate,  or  Provi- 
dence has  constituted  for  every  man  a  brotherhood, 
wherein  it  is  one  great  office  of  human  wisdom  to 
classify  him.  When  the  mind  has  once  accustomed 
185 


i86  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

itself  to  a  proper  arrangement  of  the  Procession  of  Life, 
or  a  true  classification  of  society,  even  though  merely 
speculative,  there  is  thenceforth  a  satisfaction  which 
pretty  well  suffices  for  itself,  without  the  aid  of  any 
actual  reformation  in  the  order  of  march. 

For  instance,  assuming  to  myself  the  power  of 
marshalling  the  aforesaid  procession,  I  direct  a  trum- 
peter to  send  forth  a  blast  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
from  hence  to  China ;  and  a  herald  with  world-pervad- 
ing voice,  to  make  proclamation  for  a  certain  class  of 
mortals  to  take  their  places.  What  shall  be  their  prin- 
ciple of  union  ?  After  all,  an  external  one,  in  compari- 
son with  many  that  might  be  found,  yet  far  more  real 
than  those  which  the  world  has  selected  for  a  similar 
purpose.  Let  all  who  are  afflicted  with  like  physical 
diseases  form  themselves  into  ranks ! 

Our  first  attempt  at  classification  is  not  very  success- 
ful. It  may  gratify  the  pride  of  aristocracy  to  reflect, 
that  disease,  more  than  any  other  circumstance  of  human 
life,  pays  due  observance  to  the  distinctions  which  rank 
and  wealth,  and  poverty  and  lowliness,  have  established 
among  mankind.  Some  maladies  are  rich  and  precious, 
and  only  to  be  acquired  by  the  right  of  inheritance,  or 
purchased  with  gold.  Of  this  kind  is  the  gout,  which 
serves  as  a  bond  of  brotherhood  to  the  purple-visaged 
gentry,  who  obey  the  herald's  voice,  and  painfully 
hobble  from  all  civilized  regions  of  the  globe  to  take 
their  post  in  the  grand  procession.  In  mercy  to  their 
toes,  let  us  hope  that  the  march  may  not  be  long.  The 
Dyspeptics,  too,  are  people  of  good  standing  in  the 
world.  For  them  the  earliest  salmon  is  caught  in  our 
eastern  rivers,  and  the  shy  woodcock  stains  the  dry 
leaves  with  his  blood,  in  his  remotest  haunts ;  and  the 
turtle  comes  from  the  far  Pacific  islands  to  be  gobbled 
up  in  soup.  They  can  afford  to  flavor  all  their  dishes 
with  indolence,  which,  in  spite  of  the  general  opinion,  is 
a  sauce  more  exquisitely  piquant  than  appetite  won  by 
exercise.  Apoplexy  is  another  highly  respectable  disease. 
We  will  rank  together  all  who  have  the  symptom  of 
dizziness  in  the  brain,  and,  as  fast  as  any  drop  by  the 


THE   PROCESSION    OF   LIFE       187 

way,  supply  their  places  with  new  members  of  the  board 
of  aldermen. 

On  the  other  hand,  here  come  whole  tribes  of  peo- 
ple, whose  physical  lives  are  but  a  deteriorated  variety 
of  life,  and  themselves  a  meaner  species  of  mankind; 
so  sad  an  effect  has  been  wrought  by  the  tainted  breath 
of  cities,  scanty  and  unwholesome  food,  destructive 
modes  of  labor,  and  the  lack  of  those  moral  supports 
that  might  partially  have  counteracted  such  bad  influ- 
ences. Behold  here  a  train  of  house  painters,  all  afflicted 
with  a  peculiar  sort  of  colic.  Next  in  place  we  will 
marshal  those  workmen  in  cutlery,  who  have  breathed 
a  fatal  disorder  into  their  lungs,  with  the  impalpable 
dust  of  steel.  Tailors  and  shoemakers,  being  sedentary 
men,  will  chiefly  congregate  into  one  part  of  the  pro- 
cession, and  march  under  similar  banners  of  disease ; 
but  among  them  we  may  observe  here  and  there  a 
sickly  student,  who  has  left  his  health  between  the 
leaves  of  classic  volumes;  and  clerks,  likewise,  who 
have  caught  their  deaths  on  high  official  stools ;  and 
men  of  genius  too,  who  have  written  sheet  after  sheet 
with  pens  dipped  in  their  heart's  blood.  These  are  a 
wretched,  quaking,  short-breathed  set.  But  what  is 
this  crowd  of  pale-cheeked,  slender  girls,  who  disturb 
the  ear  with  the  multiplicity  of  their  short,  dry  coughs  ? 
They  are  seamstresses  who  have  plied  the  daily  and 
nightly  needle  in  the  service  of  master  tailors  and 
close-fisted  contractors,  until  now  it  is  almost  time  for 
each  to  hem  the  borders  of  her  own  shroud.  Consump- 
tion points  their  place  in  the  procession.  With  their 
sad  sisterhood  are  intermingled  many  youthful  maidens, 
who  have  sickened  in  aristocratic  mansions,  and  for 
whose  aid  science  has  unavailingly  searched  its  vol- 
umes, and  whom  breathless  love  has  watched.  In  our 
ranks  the  rich  maiden  and  the  poor  seamstress  may 
walk  arm  in  arm.  We  might  find  innumerable  other 
instances,  where  the  bond  of  mutual  disease  —  not  to 
speak  of  nation-sweeping  pestilence  —  embraces  high 
and  low,  and  makes  the  king  a  brother  of  the  clown. 
But  it  is  not  hard  to  own  that  disease  is  the  natural 


1 88   MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

aristocrat.  Let  him  keep  his  state,  and  have  his  estab- 
lished orders  of  rank,  and  wear  his  royal  mantle  of  the 
color  of  a  fever  flush ;  and  let  the  noble  and  wealthy 
boast  their  own  physical  infirmities,  and  display  their 
symptoms  as  the  badges  of  high  station!  All  things 
considered,  these  are  as  proper  subjects  of  human 
pride  as  any  relations  of  human  rank  that  men  can 
fix  upon. 

Sound  again,  thou  deep-breathed  trumpeter!  and 
herald,  with  thy  voice  of  might,  shout  forth  another 
summons,  that  shall  reach  the  old  baronial  castles  of 
Europe,  and  the  rudest  cabin  of  our  western  wilder- 
ness !  What  class  is  next  to  take  its  place  in  the  pro- 
cession of  mortal  life  ?  Let  it  be  those  whom  the 
gifts  of  intellect  have  united  in  a  noble  brotherhood ! 

Aye,  this  is  a  reality,  before  which  the  conventional 
distinctions  of  society  melt  away,  like  a  vapor  when 
we  would  grasp  it  with  the  hand.  Were  Byron  now 
alive,  and  Burns,  the  first  would  come  from  his  an- 
cestral Abbey,  flinging  aside,  although  unwillingly,  the 
inherited  honors  of  a  thousand  years,  to  take  the  arm 
of  the  mighty  peasant,  who  grew  immortal  while  he 
stooped  behind  his  plough.  These  are  gone ;  but  the 
hall,  the  farmer's  fireside,  the  hut,  perhaps  the  palace, 
the  counting-room,  the  workshop,  the  village,  the  city, 
life's  high  places  and  low  ones,  may  all  produce  their 
poets,  whom  a  common  temperament  pervades  like  an 
electric  sympathy.  Peer  or  ploughman  will  muster 
them,  pair  by  pair,  and  shoulder  to  shoulder.  Even 
society,  in  its  most  artificial  state,  consents  to  this 
arrangement.  These  factory  girls  from  Lowell  shall 
mate  themselves  with  the  pride  of  drawing-rooms  and 
literary  circles  —  the  bluebells  in  fashion's  nosegay, 
the  Sapphos,  and  Montagues,  and  Nortons  of  the  age. 
Other  modes  of  intellect  bring  together  as  strange 
companies.  Silk-gowned  professor  of  languages,  give 
your  arm  to  this  sturdy  blacksmith,  and  deem  yourself 
honored  by  the  conjunction,  though  you  behold  him 
grimy  from  the  anvil.  All  varieties  of  human  speech 
are  like  his  mother  tongue  to  this  rare  man.  Indis- 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE      189 

criminately  let  those  take  their  places,  of  whatever 
rank  they  come,  who  possess  the  kingly  gifts  to  lead 
armies,  or  to  sway  a  people,  —  Nature's  generals,  her 
lawgivers,  her  kings,  and  with  them,  also,  the  deep 
philosophers,  who  think  the  thought  in  one  generation 
that  is  to  revolutionize  society  in  the  next.  With  the 
hereditary  legislator,  in  whom  eloquence  is  a  far-de- 
scended attainment  —  a  rich  echo  repeated  by  powerful 
voices,  from  Cicero  downward  —  we  will  match  some 
wondrous  backwoodsman,  who  has  caught  a  wild  power 
of  language  from  the  breeze  among  his  native  forest 
boughs.  But  we  may  safely  leave  brethren  and  sister- 
hood to  settle  their  own  congenialities.  Our  ordinary 
distinctions  become  so  trifling,  so  impalpable,  so  ridicu- 
lously visionary,  in  comparison  with  a  classification 
founded  on  truth,  that  all  talk  about  the  matter  is  im- 
mediately a  common-place. 

Yet,  the  longer  I  reflect,  the  less  am  I  satisfied  with 
the  idea  of  forming  a  separate  class  of  mankind  on 
the  basis  of  high  intellectual  power.  At  best,  it  is  but 
a  higher  development  of  innate  gifts  common  to  all. 
Perhaps,  moreover,  he,  whose  genius  appears  deepest 
and  truest,  excels  his  fellows  in  nothing  save  the  knack 
of  expression ;  he  throws  out,  occasionally,  a  lucky  hint 
at  truths  of  which  every  human  soul  is  profoundly, 
though  unutterably  conscious.  Therefore,  though  we 
suffer  the  brotherhood  of  intellect  to  march  onward 
together,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  their  peculiar 
relation  will  not  begin  to  vanish  as  soon  as  the  proces- 
sion shall  have  passed  beyond  the  circle  of  this  present 
world.  But  we  do  not  classify  for  eternity. 

And  next,  let  the  trumpet  pour  forth  a  funereal  wail, 
and  the  herald's  voice  give  breath,  in  one  vast  cry,  to 
all  the  groans  and  grievous  utterances  that  are  audible 
throughout  the  earth.  We  appeal  now  to  the  sacred 
bond  of  sorrow,  and  summon  the  great  multitude  who 
labor  under  similar  afflictions,  to  take  their  places  in 
the  march. 

How  many  a  heart  that  would  have  been  insensible 
to  any  other  call  has  responded  to  the  doleful  accents  of 


190  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

that  voice !  It  has  gone  far  and  wide,  and  high  and  low, 
and  left  scarcely  a  mortal  roof  unvisited.  Indeed,  the 
principle  is  only  too  universal  for  our  purpose,  and  un- 
less we  limit  it,  will  quite  break  up  our  classification  of 
mankind,  and  convert  the  whole  procession  into  a 
funeral  train.  We  will  therefore  be  at  some  pains  to 
discriminate.  Here  comes  a  lonely  rich  man ;  he  has 
built  a  noble  fabric  for  his  dwelling-house,  with  a  front 
of  stately  architecture,  and  marble  floors,  and  doors  of 
precious  woods ;  the  whole  structure  is  as  beautiful  as 
a  dream,  and  as  substantial  as  the  native  rock.  But  the 
visionary  shapes  of  a  long  posterity,  for  whose  home 
this  mansion  was  intended,  have  faded  into  nothingness, 
since  the  death  of  the  founder's  only  son.  The  rich 
man  gives  a  glance  at  his  sable  garb  in  one  of  the  splen- 
did mirrors  of  his  drawing-room,  and  descending  a  flight 
of  lofty  steps,  instinctively  offers  his  arm  to  yonder 
poverty-stricken  widow,  in  the  rusty  black  bonnet,  and 
with  a  check-apron  over  her  patched  gown.  The 
sailor-boy,  who  was  her  sole  earthly  stay,  was  washed 
overboard  in  a  late  tempest.  This  couple  from  the  palace 
and  the  alms-house  are  but  the  types  of  thousands  more, 
who  represent  the  dark  tragedy  of  life,  and  seldom  quarrel 
for  the  upper  parts. /Grief  is  such  a  leveller,  with  its 
own  dignity  and  its  own  humility,  that  the  noble  and 
the  peasant,  the  beggar  and  the  monarch,  will  waive 
their  pretensions  to  external  rank,  without  the  officious- 
ness  of  interference  on  our  part.  If  pride  —  the  influ- 
ence of  the  world's  false  distinctions  —  remain  in  the 
heart,  then  sorrow  lacks  the  earnestness  which  makes  it 
holy  and  reverend.  /It  loses  its  reality,  and  becomes  a 
miserable  shadow. /On  this  ground,  we  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  assign  over  multitudes  who  would  willingly  claim 
places  here,  to  other  parts  of  the  procession.  If  the 
mourner  have  anything  dearer  than  his  grief,  he  must 
seek  his  true  position  elsewhere.  There  are  so  many 
unsubstantial  sorrows,  which  the  necessity  of  our  mortal 
state  begets  on  idleness,  that  an  observer,  casting  aside 
sentiment,  is  sometimes  led  to  question  whether  there 
be  any  real  woe,  except  absolute  physical  suffering,  and 


THE   PROCESSION    OF    LIFE       191 

the  loss  of  closest  friends.  A  crowd,  who  exhibit  what 
they  deem  to  be  broken  hearts  —  and  among  them  many 
love-lorn  maids  and  bachelors,  and  men  of  disappointed 
ambition  in  arts,  or  politics,  and  the  poor  who  were  once 
rich,  or  who  have  sought  to  be  rich  in  vain  —  the  great 
majority  of  these  may  ask  admittance  into  some  other 
fraternity.  There  is  no  room  here.  Perhaps  we  may 
institute  a  separate  class,  where  such  unfortunates  will 
naturally  fall  into  the  procession.  Meanwhile  let  them 
stand  aside,  and  patiently  await  their  time. 

If  our  trumpeter  can  borrow  a  note  from  the  dooms- 
day trumpet-blast,  let  him  sound  it  now!  The  dread 
alarm  should  make  the  earth  quake  to  its  centre,  for  the 
herald  is  about  to  address  mankind  with  a  summons,  to 
which  even  the  purest  mortal  may  be  sensible  of  some 
faint  responding  echo  in  his  breast.  In  many  bosoms 
it  will  awaken  a  still  small  voice,  more  terrible  than  its 
own  reverberating  uproar. 

The  hideous  appeal  has  swept  around  the  globe. 
Come,  all  ye  guilty  ones,  and  rank  yourselves  in  accord- 
ance with  the  brotherhood  of  crime.  This,  indeed,  is 
an  awful  summons.  I  almost  tremble  to  look  at  the 
strange  partnerships  that  begin  to  be  formed,  reluctantly, 
but  by  the  invincible  necessity  of  like  to  like  in  this  part 
of  the  procession.  A  forger  from  the  state  prison 
seizes  the  arm  of  a  distinguished  financier.  How  indig- 
nantly does  the  latter  plead  his  fair  reputation  upon 
'Change,  and  insist  that  his  operations,  by  their  magnifi- 
cence of  scope,  were  removed  into  quite  another  sphere 
of  morality  than  those  of  his  pitiful  companion !  But 
let  him  cut  the  connection  if  he  can.  Here  comes  a 
murderer,  with  his  clanking  chains,  and  pairs  himself 
—  horrible  to  tell !  — with  as  pure  and  upright  a  man,  in 
all  observable  respects,  as  ever  partook  of  the  conse- 
crated bread  and  wine.  He  is  one  of  those,  perchance 
the  most  hopeless  of  all  sinners,  who  practise  such  an 
exemplary  system  of  outward  duties,  that  even  a  deadly 
crime  may  be  hidden  from  their  own  sight  and  remem- 
brance, under  this  unreal  frost-work.  Yet  he  now  finds 
his  place.  Why  do  that  pair  of  flaunting  girls,  with  the 


192  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

pert,  affected  laugh,  and  the  sly  leer  at  the  bystanders, 
intrude  themselves  into  the  same  rank  with  yonder 
decorous  matron  and  that  somewhat  prudish  maiden  ? 
Surely,  these  poor  creatures,  born  to  vice,  as  their  sole 
and  natural  inheritance,  can  be  no  fit  associates  for 
women  who  have  been  guarded  round  about  by  all  the 
proprieties  of  domestic  life,  and  who  could  not  err, 
unless  they  first  created  the  opportunity !  Oh,  no ;  it 
must  be  merely  the  impertinence  of  those  unblushing 
hussies ;  and  we  can  only  wonder  how  such  respectable 
ladies  should  have  responded  to  a  summons  that  was 
not  meant  for  them. 

We  shall  make  short  work  of  this  miserable  class, 
each  member  of  which  is  entitled  to  grasp  any  other 
member's  hand,  by  that  vile  degradation  wherein  guilty 
error  has  buried  all  alike.  The  foul  fiend,  to  whom  it 
properly  belongs,  must  relieve  us  of  our  loathsome  task. 
Let  the  bond-servants  of  sin  pass  on.  But  neither  man 
nor  woman,  in  whom  good  predominates,  will  smile  or 
sneer,  nor  bid  the  Rogues'  March  be  played,  in  derision 
of  their  array.  Feeling  within  their  breasts  a  shudder- 
ing sympathy,  which  at  least  gives  token  of  the  sin  that 
might  have  been,  they  will  thank  God  for  any  place  in 
the  grand  procession  of  human  existence,  save  among 
those  most  wretched  ones.  Many,  however,  will  be 
astonished  at  the  fatal  impulse  that  drags  them  thither- 
ward. Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  various 
deceptions  by  which  guilt  conceals  itself  from  the  per- 
petrator's conscience,  and  oftenest,  perhaps,  by  the 
splendor  of  its  garments.  Statesmen,  rulers,  generals, 
and  all  men  who  act  over  an  extensive  sphere,  are 
most  liable  to  be  deluded  in  this  way ;  they  commit 
wrong,  devastation,  and  murder,  on  so  grand  a  scale, 
that  it  impresses  them  as  speculative  rather  than  actual ; 
but,  in  our  procession,  we  find  them  linked  in-detestable 
conjunction  with  the  meanest  criminals,  whose  deeds 
have  the  vulgarity  of  petty  details.  Here  the  effect  of 
circumstance  and  accident  is  done  away,  and  a  man 
finds  his  rank  according  to  the  spirit  of  his  crime,  in 
whatever  shape  it  may  have  been  developed. 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE        193 

We  have  called  the  Evil ;  now  let  us  call  the  Good. 
The  trumpet's  brazen  throat  should  pour  heavenly 
music  over  the  earth,  and  the  herald's  voice  go  forth 
with  the  sweetness  of  an  angel's  accents,  as  if  to  sum- 
mon each  upright  man  to  his  reward.  But  how  is 
this  ?  Does  none  answer  to  the  call  ?  Not  one :  for 
the  just,  the  pure,  the  true,  and  all  who  might  most 
worthily  obey  it,  shrink  sadly  back,  as  most  conscious 
of  error  and  imperfection.  Then  let  the  summons  be 
to  those  whose  pervading  principle  is  Love.  This 
classification  will  embrace  all  the  truly  good,  and  none 
in  whose  souls  there  exists  not  something  that  may 
expand  itself  into  a  heaven,  both  of  well-doing  and 
felicity. 

The  first  that  presents  himself  is  a  man  of  wealth, 
who  has  bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  a 
hospital ;  his  ghost,  methinks,  would  have  a  better  right 
here  than  his  living  body.  But  here  they  come,  the 
genuine  benefactors  of  their  race.  Some  have  wandered 
about  the  earth  with  pictures  of  bliss  in  their  imagina- 
tion, and  with  hearts  that  shrank  sensitively  from  the 
idea  of  pain  and  woe,  yet  have  studied  all  varieties  of 
misery  that  human  nature  can  endure.  The  prison,  the 
insane  asylum,  the  squalid  chamber  of  the  alms-house, 
the  manufactory  where  the  demon  of  machinery  annihi- 
lates the  human  soul,  and  the  cotton  field  where  God's 
image  becomes  a  beast  of  burthen ;  to  these,  and  every 
other  scene  where  man  wrongs  or  neglects  his  brother, 
the  apostles  of  humanity  have  penetrated.  This  mission- 
ary, black  with  India's  burning  sunshine,  shall  give  his 
arm  to  a  pale-faced  brother  who  has  made  himself  famil- 
iar with  the  infected  alleys  and  loathsome  haunts  of 
vice,  in  one  of  our  own  cities.  The  generous  founder 
of  a  college  shall  be  the  partner  of  a  maiden  lady,  of 
narrow  substance,  one  of  whose  good  deeds  it  has  been, 
to  gather  a  little  school  of  orphan  children.  If  the 
mighty  merchant,  whose  benefactions  are  reckoned  by 
thousands  of  dollars,  deem  himself  worthy,  let  him  join 
the  procession  with  her  whose  love  has  proved  itself  by 
watchings  at  the  sick-bed,  and  all  those  lowly  offices 


194  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

which  bring  her  into  actual  contact  with  disease  and 
wretchedness.  And  with  those  whose  impulses  have 
guided  them  to  benevolent  actions,  we  will  rank  others,  to 
whom  Providence  has  assigned  a  different  tendency  and 
different  powers.  Men  who  have  spent  their  lives  in 
generous  and  holy  contemplation  for  the  human  race ; 
those  who,  by  a  certain  heavenliness  of  spirit,  have 
purified  the  atmosphere  around  them,  and  thus  sup- 
plied a  medium  in  which  good  and  high  things  may  be 
projected  and  performed, — give  to  these  a  lofty  place 
among  the  benefactors  of  mankind,  although  no  deed, 
such  as  the  world  calls  deeds,  may  be  recorded  of  them. 
There  are  some  individuals,  of  whom  we  cannot  con- 
ceive it  proper  that  they  should  apply  their  hands  to 
any  earthly  instrument,  or  work  out  any  definite  act ; 
and  others,  perhaps  not  less  high,  to  whom  it  is  an 
essential  attribute  to  labor,  in  body  as  well  as  spirit, 
for  the  welfare  of  their  brethren.  Thus,  if  we  find  a 
spiritual  sage,  whose  unseen,  inestimable  influence  has 
exalted  the  moral  standard  of  mankind,  we  will  choose 
for  his  companion  some  poor  laborer,  who  has  wrought 
for  love  in  the  potato  field  of  a  neighbor  poorer  than 
himself. 

We  have  summoned  this  various  multitude  —  and,  to 
the  credit  of  our  nature,  it  is  a  large  one  —  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  Love.  It  is  singular,  nevertheless,  to  remark 
the  shyness  that  exists  among  many  members  of  the 
present  class,  all  of  whom  we  might  expect  to  recognize 
one  another  by  the  free-masonry  of  mutual  goodness, 
and  to  embrace  like  brethren,  giving  God  thanks  for 
such  various  specimens  of  human  excellence.  But  it  is 
far  otherwise.  Each  sect  surrounds  its  own  righteous- 
ness with  a  hedge  of  thorns.  It  is  difficult  for  the  good 
Christian  to  acknowledge  the  good  Pagan ;  almost 
impossible  for  the  good  Orthodox  to  grasp  the  hand  of 
the  good  Unitarian,  leaving  to  their  Creator  to  settle 
the  matters  in  dispute,  and  giving  their  mutual  efforts 
strongly  and  trustingly  to  whatever  right  thing  is  too 
evident  to  be  mistaken.  Then  again,  though  the  heart 
be  large,  yet  the  mind  is  often  of  such  moderate  dimen- 


THE   PROCESSION   OF   LIFE       195 

sions  as  to  be  exclusively  filled  up  with  one  idea.  When 
a  good  man  has  long  devoted  himself  to  a  particular 
kind  of  beneficence  —  to  one  species  of  reform  —  he  is 
apt  to  become  narrowed  into  the  limits  of  the  path 
wherein  he  treads,  and  to  fancy  that  there  is  no  other 
good  to  be  done  on  earth  but  that  self-same  good  to 
which  he  has  put  his  hand,  and  in  the  very  mode  that 
best  suits  his  own  conceptions.  All  else  is  worthless ; 
his  scheme  must  be  wrought  out  by  the  united  strength 
of  the  whole  world's  stock  of  love,  or  the  world  is  no 
longer  worthy  of  a  position  in  the  universe.  Moreover, 
powerful  Truth,  being  the  rich  grape-juice  expressed 
from  the  vineyard  of  the  ages,  has  an  intoxicating 
quality,  when  imbibed  by  any  save  a  powerful  intellect, 
and  often,  as  it  were,  impels  the  quaffer  to  quarrel  in 
his  cups.  For  such  reasons,  strange  to  say,  it  is  harder 
to  contrive  a  friendly  arrangement  of  these  brethren  of 
love  and  righteousness,  in  the  procession  of  life,  than  to 
unite  even  the  wicked,  who,  indeed,  are  chained  together 
by  their  crimes.  The  fact  is  too  preposterous  for  tears, 
too  lugubrious  for  laughter. 

But,  let  good  men  push  and  elbow  one  another  as 
they  may,  during  their  earthly  march,  all  will  be  peace 
among  them  when  the  honorable  array  of  their  proces- 
sion shall  tread  on  heavenly  ground.  There  they  will 
doubtless  find,  that  they  have  been  working  each  for  the 
other's  cause,  and  that  every  well-delivered  stroke, 
which,  with  an  honest  purpose,  any  mortal  struck,  even 
for  a  narrow  object,  was  indeed  stricken  for  the  uni- 
versal cause  of  good.  Their  own  view  may  be  bounded 
by  country,  creed,  profession,  the  diversities  of  individual 
character  —  but  above  them  all  is  the  breadth  of  Provi- 
dence. How  many,  who  have  deemed  themselves  an- 
tagonists, will  smile  hereafter,  when  they  look  back 
upon  the  world's  wide  harvest  field,  and  perceive  that, 
in  unconscious  brotherhood,  they  were  helping  to  bind 
the  self-same  sheaf ! 

But,  come !  The  sun  is  hastening  westward,  while 
the  march  of  human  life,  that  never  paused  before,  is 
delayed  by  our  attempt  to  rearrange  its  order.  It  is 


196  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

desirable  to  find  some  comprehensive  principle,  that 
shall  render  our  task  easier  by  bringing  thousands  into 
the  ranks,  where  hitherto  we  have  brought  one.  There- 
fore let  the  trumpet,  if  possible,  split  its  brazen  throat 
with  a  louder  note  than  ever,  and  the  herald  summon  all 
mortals  who,  from  whatever  cause,  have  lost,  or  never 
found,  their  proper  places  in  the  world. 

Obedient  to  this  call,  a  great  multitude  come  together, 
most  of  them  with  a  listless  gait,  betokening  weariness 
of  soul,  yet  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  their  faces,  at 
a  prospect  of  at  length  reaching  those  positions  which, 
hitherto,  they  have  vainly  sought.  But  here  will  be 
another  disappointment ;  for  we  can  attempt  no  more 
than  merely  to  associate,  in  one  fraternity,  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  the  same  vague  trouble.  Some  great  mis- 
take in  life  is  the  chief  condition  of  admittance  into  this 
class.  Here  are  members  of  the  learned  professions, 
whom  Providence  endowed  with  special  gifts  for  the 
plough,  the  forge,  and  the  wheel-barrow,  or  for  the 
routine  of  unintellectual  business.  We  will  assign  them, 
as  partners  in  the  march,  those  lowly  laborers  and  handi- 
craftsmen, who  have  pined,  as  with  a  dying  thirst,  after 
the  unattainable  fountains  of  knowledge.  The  latter 
have  lost  less  than  their  companions  ;  yet  more,  because 
they  deem  it  infinite.  Perchance  the  two  species  of 
unfortunates  may  comfort  one  another.  Here  are 
Quakers  with  the  instinct  of  battle  in  them,  and  men 
of  war  who  should  have  worn  the  broad-brim.  Authors 
shall  be  ranked  here,  whom  some  freak  of  Nature, 
making  game  of  her  poor  children,  had  imbued  with  the 
confidence  of  genius,  and  strong  desire  of  fame,  but  has 
favored  with  no  corresponding  power ;  and  others,  whose 
lofty  gifts  were  unaccompanied  with  the  faculty  of  ex- 
pression, or  any  of  that  earthly  machinery,  by  which 
ethereal  endowments  must  be  manifested  to  mankind. 
All  these,  therefore,  are  melancholy  laughing-stocks. 
Next,  here  are  honest  and  well-intentioned  persons,  who 
by  a  want  of  tact  —  by  inaccurate  perceptions  —  by  a 
distorting  imagination  —  have  been  kept  continually  at 
cross-purposes  with  the  world,  and  bewildered  upon  the 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE      197 

path  of  life.  Let  us  see,  if  they  can  confine  themselves 
within  the  line  of  our  procession.  In  this  class,  like- 
wise, we  must  assign  places  to  those  who  have  en- 
countered that  worst  of  ill-success,  a  higher  fortune  than 
their  abilities  could  vindicate :  writers,  actors,  painters, 
the  pets  of  a  day,  but  whose  laurels  wither  unrenewed 
amid  their  hoary  hair ;  politicians,  whom  some  malicious 
contingency  of  affairs  has  thrust  into  conspicuous  station, 
where,  while  the  world  stands  gazing  at  them,  the  dreary 
consciousness  of  imbecility  makes  them  curse  their  birth- 
hour.  To  such  men,  we  give  for  a  companion  him 
whose  rare  talents,  which  perhaps  require  a  revolution 
for  their  exercise,  are  buried  in  the  tomb  of  sluggish 
circumstances. 

Not  far  from  these,  we  must  find  room  for  one  whose 
success  has  been  of  the  wrong  kind :  the  man  who 
should  have  lingered  in  the  cloisters  of  a  university, 
digging  new  treasures  out  of  the  Herculaneum  of 
antique  lore,  diffusing  depth  and  accuracy  of  literature 
throughout  his  country,  and  thus  making  for  himself  a 
great  and  quiet  fame.  But  the  outward  tendencies 
around  him  have  proved  too  powerful  for  his  inward 
nature,  and  have  drawn  him  into  the  arena  of  political 
tumult,  there  to  contend  at  disadvantage,  whether  front 
to  front,  or  side  by  side,  with  the  brawny  giants  of 
actual  life.  He  becomes,  it  may  be,  a  name  for  brawl- 
ing parties  to  bandy  to  and  fro,  a  legislator  of  the 
Union ;  a  governor  of  his  native  State ;  an  ambassador 
to  the  courts  of  kings  or  queens ;  and  the  world  may 
deem  him  a  man  of  happy  stars.  But  not  so  the  wise ; 
and  not  so  himself,  when  he  looks  through  his  experi- 
ence, and  sighs  to  miss  that  fitness,  the  one  invaluable 
touch  which  makes  all  things  true  and  real.  So  much 
achieved,  yet  how  abortive  is  his  life !  Whom  shall  we 
choose  for  his  companion  ?  Some  weak-framed  black- 
smith, perhaps,  whose  delicacy  of  muscles  might  have 
suited  a  tailor's  shop-board  better  than  the  anvil. 

Shall  we  bid  the  trumpet  sound  again  ?  It  is  hardly 
worth  the  while.  There  remain  a  few  idle  men  of 
fortune,  tavern  and  grog-shop  loungers,  lazzaroni,  old 


198  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

bachelors,  decaying  maidens,  and  people  of  crooked 
intellect  or  temper,  all  of  whom  may  find  their  like,  or 
some  tolerable  approach  to  it,  in  the  plentiful  diversity 
of  our  latter  class.  There  too,  as  his  ultimate  destiny, 
must  we  rank  the  dreamer,  who,  all  his  life  long,  has 
cherished  the  idea  that  he  was  peculiarly  apt  for  some- 
thing, but  never  could  determine  what  it  was ;  and  there 
the  most  unfortunate  of  men,  whose  purpose  it  has  been 
to  enjoy  life's  pleasures,  but  to  avoid  a  manful  struggle 
with  its  toil  and  sorrow.  The  remainder,  if  any,  may 
connect  themselves  with  .whatever  rank  of  the  procession 
they  shall  find  best  adapted  to  their  tastes  and  con- 
sciences. The  worst  possible  fate  would  be  to  remain 
behind,  shivering  in  the  solitude  of  time,  while  all  the 
world  is  on  the  move  toward  eternity.  Our  attempt  to 
classify  society  is  now  complete.  The  result  may  be 
anything  but  perfect;  yet  better  —  to  give  it  the  very 
lowest  phrase — than  the  antique  rule  of  the  herald's 
office,  or  the  modern  one  of  the  tax-gatherer,  whereby 
the  accidents  and  superficial  attributes,  with  which  the 
real  nature  of  individuals  has  least  to  do,  are  acted  upon 
as  the  deepest  characteristics  of  mankind.  Our  task  is 
done !  Now  let  the  grand  procession  move  ! 

Yet  pause  awhile!  We  had  forgotten  the  Chief- 
Marshal. 

Hark !  That  world- wide  swell  of  solemn  music,  with 
the  clang  of  a  mighty  bell  breaking  forth  through  its 
regular  uproar,  announces  his  approach.  He  comes; 
a  severe,  sedate,  immovable,  dark  rider,  waving  his 
truncheon  of  universal  sway,  as  he  passes  along  the 
lengthened  line,  on  the  pale  horse  of  the  Revelation. 
It  is  Death  !  Who  else  could  assume  the  guidance  of  a 
procession  that  comprehends  all  humanity?  And  if 
some,  among  these  many  millions,  should  deem  them- 
selves classed  amiss,  yet  let  them  take  to  their  hearts 
the  comfortable  truth,  that  Death  levels  us  all  into  one 
great  brotherhood,  and  that  another  state  of  being  will 
surely  rectify  the  wrong  of  this.  Then  breathe  thy  wail 
upon  the  earth's  wailing  wind,  thou  band  of  melancholy 
music,  made  up  of  every  sigh  that  the  human  heart, 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE       199 

unsatisfied,  has  uttered !  There  is  yet  triumph  in  thy 
tones.  And  now  we  move  !  Beggars  in  their  rags,  and 
Kings  trailing  the  regal  purple  in  the  dust ;  the  War- 
rior's gleaming  helmet ;  the  Priest  in  his  sable  robe ; 
the  hoary  grandsire,  who  has  run  life's  circle  and  come 
back  to  childhood ;  the  ruddy  School-boy  with  his 
golden  curls,  frisking  along  the  march ;  the  Artisan's 
stuff -jacket ;  the  Noble's  star-decorated  coat ;  —  the 
whole  presenting  a  motley  spectacle,  yet  with  a  dusky 
grandeur  brooding  over  it.  Onward,  onward,  into  that 
dimness  where  the  lights  of  Time,  which  have  blazed 
along  the  procession,  are  flickering  in  their  sockets ! 
And  whither !  We  know  not,  and  Death,  hitherto  our 
leader,  deserts  us  by  the  wayside,  as  the  tramp  of  our 
innumerable  footsteps  passes  beyond  his  sphere.  He 
knows  not,  more  than  we,  our  destined  goal.  But  God, 
who  made  us,  knows,  and  will  not  leave  us  on  our  toil- 
some and  doubtful  march,  either  to  wander  in  infinite 
uncertainty,  or  perish  by  the  way ! 


FEATHERTOP: 

A    MORALIZED    LEGEND 

DICKON,"  cried  Mother  Rigby,  "a  coal  for  my 
pipe ! " 

The  pipe  was  in  the  old  dame's  mouth  when  she  said 
these  words.  She  had  thrust  it  there  after  filling  it  with 
tobacco,  but  without  stooping  to  light  it  at  the  hearth, 
where  indeed  there  was  no  appearance  of  a  fire  having 
been  kindled  that  morning.  Forthwith,  however,  as 
soon  as  the  order  was  given,  there  was  an  intense  red 
glow  out  of  the  bowl  of  the  pipe,  and  a  whiff  of  smoke 
from  Mother  Rigby's  lips.  Whence  the  coal  came,  and 
how  brought  thither  by  an  invisible  hand,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  discover. 

"  Good  !  "  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  with  a  nod  of  her  head. 
"  Thank  ye,  Dickon  !  And  now  for  making  this  scare- 
crow. Be  within  call,  Dickon,  in  case  I  need  you  again." 

The  good  woman  had  risen  thus  early  (for  as  yet  it 
was  scarcely  sunrise)  in  order  to  set  about  making  a 
scarecrow,  which  she  intended  to  put  in  the  middle  of 
her  corn-patch.  It  was  now  the  latter  week  of  May, 
and  the  crows  and  blackbirds  had  already  discovered  the 
little,  green,  rolled-up  leaf  of  the  Indian  corn  just  peep- 
ing out  of  the  soil.  She  was  determined,  therefore,  to 
contrive  as  lifelike  a  scarecrow  as  ever  was  seen,  and  to 
finish  it  immediately  from  top  to  toe,  so  that  it  should 
begin  its  sentinel's  duty  that  very  morning.  Now 
Mother  Rigby  (as  everybody  must  have  heard)  was  one 
of  the  most  cunning  and  potent  witches  in  New  England, 
and  might,  with  very  little  trouble,  have  made  a  scare- 
crow ugly  enough  to  frighten  the  minister  himself.  But 
on  this  occasion,  as  she  had  awakened  in  an  uncommonly 


FEATHERTOP  201 

pleasant  humor,  and  was  further  dulcified  by  her  pipe  of 
tobacco,  she  resolved  to  produce  something  fine,  beauti- 
ful, and  splendid,  rather  than  hideous  and  horrible. 

"  I  don't  want  to  set  up  a  hobgoblin  in  my  own  corn- 
patch,  and  almost  at  my  own  doorstep,"  said  Mother 
Rigby  to  herself,  puffing  out  a  whiff  of  smoke  ;  "  I  could 
do  it  if  I  pleased,  but  I  'm  tired  of  doing  marvellous 
things,  and  so  I  '11  keep  within  the  bounds  of  everyday 
business,  just  for  variety's  sake.  Besides,  there  is  no 
use  in  scaring  the  little  children  for  a  mild  roundabout, 
though  't  is  true  I  'm  a  witch." 

It  was  settled,  therefore,  in  her  own  mind,  that  the 
scarecrow  should  represent  a  fine  gentleman  of  the 
period,  so  far  as  the  materials  at  hand  would  allow. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  to  enumerate  the  chief  of  the 
articles  that  went  to  the  composition  of  this  figure. 

The  most  important  item  of  all,  probably,  although  it 
made  so  little  show,  was  a  certain  broomstick,^ on  which 
Mother  Rigby  had  taken  many  an  airy  gallop  at  mid- 
night, and  which  now  served  the  scarecrow  by  way  of  a 
spinal  column,  or,  as  the  unlearned  phrase  it,  a  backbone^ 
One  of  its  arms  was  a  disabled  flaifVhich  used  to  be 
wielded  by  Goodman  Rigby,  before  his  spouse  worried 
him  out  of  this  troublesome  world  ;  the  other,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  was  composed  of  the  pudding-stick"  and  a 
broken  rung  of  a  chair,  tied  loosely  together  at  the 
elbow.  As  for  its  legs,  the  right  was  a  hoe-handle,  and 
the  left  an  undistinguished  and  miscellaneous  stick'from 
the  woodpile.  Its  lungs,  stomach,  and  other  affairs  of 
that  kind  were  nothing  better  than  a  meal-bag  stuffed 
with  straw.  Thus  we  have  made  out  the  skeleton  and 
entire  corporeity  of  the  scarecrow,  with  the  exception  of 
its  head ;  and  this  was  admirably  supplied  by  a  some- 
what withered  and  shrivelled  pumpkin,"  in  which  Mother 
Rigby  cut  two  holes  for  the  eyes,  and  a  slit  for  the  mouth, 
leaving  a  bluish-colored  knob  in  the  middle  to  pass  for  a 
nose.  It  was  really  quite  a  respectable  face. 

"  I  've  seen  worse  ones  on  human  shoulders,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Mother  Rigby.  "And  many  a  fine  gentle- 
man has  a  pumpkin-head,  as  well  as  my  scarecrow." 


202     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

But  the  clothespin  this  case,  were  to  be  the  making 
of  the  man.  So  the  good  old  woman  took  down  from 
a  peg  an  ancient  plum-colored  coat  of  London  make, 
and  with  relics  of  embroidery  on  its  seams,  cuffs,  pocket- 
flaps,  and  buttonholes,  but  lamentably  worn  and  faded, 
patched  at  the  elbows,  tattered  at  the  skirts,  and  thread- 
bare all  over.  On  the  left  breast  was  a  round  hole, 
whence  either  a  star  of  nobility  had  been  rent  away,  or 
else  the  hot  heart  of  some  former  wearer  had  scorched  it 
through  and  through.  The  neighbors  said  that  this  rich 
garment  belonged  to  the  Black  Man's  wardrobe,  and 
that  he  kept  it  at  Mother  Rigby's  cottage  for  the  con- 
venience of  slipping  it  on  whenever  he  wished  to  make 
a  grand  appearance  at  the  governor's  table.  To  match 
the  coat  there  was  a  velvet  waistcoat  of  very  ample  size 
and  formerly  embroidered  with  foliage  that  had  been  as 
brightly  golden  as  the  maple-leaves  in  October,  but  which 
had  now  quite  vanished  out  of  the  substance  of  the  velvet. 
Next  came  a  pair  of  scarlet  breeches,  once  worn  by  the 
French  governor  of  Louisbourg,  and  the  knees  of  which 
had  touched  the  lower  step  of  the  throne  of  Louis  le 
Grand.  The  Frenchman  had  given  these  small-clothes 
to  an  Indian  powwow,  who  parted  with  them  to  the  old 
witch  for  a  gill  of  strong  waters,  at  one  of  their  dances 
in  the  forest.  Furthermore,  Mother.  Rigby  produced  a 
pair  of  silk  stockings  and  put  them  on  the  figure's  legs, 
where  they  showed  as  unsubstantial  £s  a  dream,  with  the 
wooden  reality  of  the  two  sticks  malting  itself  miserably 
apparent  through  the  holes.  Lastly,  she  put  her  dead 
husband's  wig  on  the  bare  scalp  of  the  pumpkin,  and 
surmounted  the  whole  with  a  dusty  three-cornered  hat, 
in  which  was  stuck  the  longest  tail-feather  of  a  rooster. 

Then  the  old  dame  stood  the  figure  up  in  a  corner  of 
her  cottage  and  chuckled  to  behold  its  yellow  semblance 
of  a  visage,  with  its  nobby  little  nose  thrust  into  the  air. 
It  had  a  strangely  self-satisfied  aspect,  and  seemed  to 
say,  "  Come  look  at  me  !  " 

"  And  you  are  well  worth  looking  at,  that 's  a  fact !  " 
quoth  Mother  Rigby,  in  admiration  at  her  own  handi- 
work. "  I  've  made  many  a  puppet  since  I  've  been  a 


FEATHERTOP  203 

witch  ;  but  methinks  this  is  the  finest  of  them  all.  'T  is 
almost  too  good  for  a  scarecrow.  And,  by  the  bye,  I  '11 
just  fill  a  fresh  pipe  of  tobacco,  and  then  take  him  out 
to  the  corn-patch." 

While  filling  her  pipe,  the  old  woman  continued  to 
gaze  with  almost  motherly  affection  at  the  figure  in  the 
corner.  To  say  the  truth,  whether  it  were  chance,  or 
skill,  or  downright  witchcraft,  there  was  something  won- 
derfully human  in  this  ridiculous  shape,  bedizened  with 
its  tattered  finery ;  and  as  for  the  countenance,  it  ap- 
peared to  shrivel  its  yellow  surface  into  a  grin,  —  a 
funny  kind  of  expression  betwixt  scorn  and  merriment, 
as  if  it  understood  itself  to  be  a  jest  at  mankind.  The 
more  Mother  Rigby  looked  the  better  she  was  pleased. 

"Dickon,"  cried  she,  sharply,  "another  coal  for  my 
pipe !  " 

Hardly  had  she  spoken,  than,  just  as  before,  there  was 
a  red-glowing  coal  on  the  top  of  the  tobacco.  She  drew 
in  a  long  whiff  and  puffed  it  forth  again  into  the  bar  of 
morning  sunshine  which  struggled  through  the  one  dusty 
pane  of  her  cottage-window.  Mother  Rigby  always 
liked  to  flavor  her  pipe  with  a  coal  of  fire  from  the  par- 
ticular chimney-corner  whence  this  had  been  brought. 
But  where  that  chimney-corner  might  be,  or  who  brought 
the  coal  from  it,  —  further  than  that  the  invisible  mes- 
senger seemed  to  respond  to  the  name  of  Dickon,  —  I 
cannot  tell. 

"  That  puppet  yonder,"  thought  Mother  Rigby,  still 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  scarecrow,  "is  too  good  a 
piece  of  work  to  stand  all  summer  in  a  corn-patch, 
frightening  away  the  crows  and  blackbirds.  He  's  ca- 
pable of  better  things.  Why,  I  Ve  danced  with  a  worse 
one,  when  partners  happened  to  be  scarce,  at  our  witch- 
meetings  in  the  forest !  What  if  I  should  let  him  take 
his  chance  among  the  other  men  of  straw  and  empty 
fellows  who  go  bustling  about  the  world  ?  " 

The  old  witch  took. three  or  four  more  whiffs  of  her 
pipe  and  smiled. 

"  He  '11  meet  plenty  of  his  brethren  at  every  street- 
corner  !  "  continued  she.  "  Well ;  I  did  n't  mean  to 


204     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

dabble  in.  witchcraft  to-day,  further  than  the  lighting  of 
my  pipe ;  but  a  witch  I  am,  and  a  witch  I  'm  likely  to 
be,  and  there 's  no  use  trying  to  shirk  it.  I  '11  make  a 
man  of  my  scarecrow,  were  it  only  for  the  joke's  sake ! '.' 

While  muttering  these  words,  Mother  Rigby  took  the 
pipe  from  her  own  mouth  and  thrust  it  into  the  crevice 
which  represented  the  same  feature  in  the  pumpkin 
visage  of  the  scarecrow. 

"  Puff,  darling,  puff !  "  said  she.  "  Puff  away,  my  fine 
fellow  !  your  life  depends  on  it !  " 

This  was  a  strange  exhortation,  undoubtedly,  to  be  ad- 
dressed to  a  mere  thing  of  sticks,  straw,  and  old  clothes, 
with  nothing  better  than  a  shrivelled  pumpkin  for  a 
head ;  as  we  know  to  have  been  the  scarecrow's  case. 
Nevertheless,  as  we  must  carefully  hold  in  remembrance, 
Mother  Rigby  was  a  witch  of  singular  power  and  dex- 
terity ;  and,  keeping  this  fact  duly  before  our  minds,  we 
shall  see  nothing  beyond  credibility  in  the  remarkable 
incidents  of  our  story.  Indeed,  the  great  difficulty  will 
be  at  once  got  over  if  we  can  only  bring  ourselves  to 
believe  that,  as  soon  as  the  old  dame  bade  him  puff, 
there  came  a  whiff  of  smoke  from  the  scarecrow's  mouth. 
It  was  the  very  feeblest  of  whiffs,  to  be  sure ;  but  it  was 
followed  by  another  and  another,  each  more  decided 
than  the  preceding  one. 

"  Puff  away,  my  pet !  puff  away,  my  pretty  one ! " 
Mother  Rigby  kept  repeating,  with  her  pleasantest  smile. 
"  It  is  the  breath  of  life  to  ye ;  and  that  you  may  take 
my  word  for." 

Beyond  all  question  the  pipe  was  bewitched.  There 
must  have  been  a  spell  either  in  the  tobacco  or  in  the 
fiercely  glowing  coal  that  so  mysteriously  burned  on  top 
of  it,  or  in  the  pungently  aromatic  smoke  which  exhaled 
from  the  kindled  weed.  The  figure,  after  a  few  doubtful 
attempts,  at  length  blew  forth  a  volley  of  smoke  extend- 
ing all  the  way  from  the  obscure  corner  into  the  bar  of 
sunshine.  There  it  eddied  and  melted  away  among  the 
motes  of  dust.  It  seemed  a  convulsive  effort ;  for  the 
two  or  three  next  whiffs  were  fainter,  although  the  coal 
still  glowed  and  threw  a  gleam  over  the  scarecrow's 


FEATHERTOP  205 

visage.  The  old  witch  clapped  her  skinny  hands  to- 
gether, and  smiled  encouragingly  upon  her  handiwork. 
She  saw  that  the  charm  worked  well.  The  shrivelled, 
yellow  face,  which  heretofore  had  been  no  face  at  all, 
had  already  a  thin,  fantastic  haze,  as  it  were,  of  human 
likeness,  shifting  to  and  fro  across  it ;  sometimes  vanish- 
ing entirely,  but  growing  more  perceptible  than  ever 
with  the  next  whiff  from  the  pipe.  The  whole  figure, 
in  like  manner,  assumed  a  show  of  life,  such  as  we 
impart  to  ill-defined  shapes  among  the  clouds,  and  half 
deceive  ourselves  with  the  pastime  of  our  own  fancy. 

If  we  must  needs  pry  closely  into  the  matter,  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  there  was  any  real  change,  after  all, 
in  the  sordid,  worn-out,  worthless,  and  ill-jointed  sub- 
stance of  the  scarecrow ;  but  merely  a  spectral  illusion, 
and  a  cunning  effect  of  light  and  shade  so  colored  and 
contrived  as  to  delude  the  eyes  of  most  men.  The 
miracles  of  witchcraft  seem  always  to  have  had  a  very 
shallow  subtlety ;  and,  at  least,  if  the  above  explanation 
do  not  hit  the  truth  of  the  process,  I  can  suggest  no  better. 

"Well  puffed,  my  pretty  lad  !  "  still  cried  old  Mother 
Rigby.  "  Come,  another  good  stout  whiff,  and  let  it  be 
with  might  and  main.  Puff  for  thy  life,  I  tell  thee ! 
Puff  out  of  the  very  bottom  of  thy  heart ;  if  any  heart 
thou  hast,  or  any  bottom  to  it !  Well  done,  again ! 
Thou  didst  suck  in  that  mouthful  as  if  for  the  pure  love 
of  it." 

And  then  the  witch  beckoned  to  the  scarecrow,  throw- 
ing so  much  magnetic  potency  into  her  gesture  that  it 
seemed  as  if  it  must  inevitably  be  obeyed,  like  the 
mystic  call  of  the  loadstone  when  it  summons  the  iron. 

"Why  lurkest  thou  in  the  corner,  lazy  one?"  said 
she.  "  Step  forth  !  Thou  hast  the  world  before  thee !  " 

Upon  my  word,  if  the  legend  were  not  one  which  I 
heard  on  my  grandmother's  knee,  and  which  had  estab- 
lished its  place  among  things  credible  before  my  child- 
ish judgment  could  analyze  its  probability,  I  question 
whether  I  should  have  the  face  to  tell  it  now. 

In  obedience  to  Mother  Rigby's  word,  and  extending 
its  arm  as  if  to  reach  her  outstretched  hand,  the  figure 


206     MOSSES    FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

made  a  step  forward,  —  a  kind  of  hitch  and  jerk,  how- 
ever, rather  than  a  step,  —  then  tottered  and  almost  lost 
its  balance.  What  could  the  witch  expect?  It  was 
nothing,  after  all,  but  a  scarecrow  stuck  upon  two  sticks. 
But  the  strong-willed  old  beldam  scowled  and  beckoned, 
and  flung  the  energy  of  her  purpose  so  forcibly  at  this 
poor  combination  of  rotten  wood  and  musty  straw  and 
ragged  garments,  that  it  was  compelled  to  show  itself  a 
man,  in  spite  of  the  reality  of  things.  So  it  stepped  into 
the  bar  of  sunshine.  There  it  stood,  —  poor  devil  of  a 
contrivance  that  it  was !  —  with  only  the  thinnest  ves- 
ture of  human  similitude  about  it,  through  which  was 
evident  the  stiff,  rickety,  incongruous,  faded,  tattered, 
good-for-nothing  patchwork  of  its  substance,  ready  to 
sink  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor,  as  ^MIS^IS  "f  its  n™"  n"- 
yprt-V^ripss  tn  h^  ^rprt  Shall  I  confess  the  truth  ?  At 
/its  present  point  of  vivification,  the  scarecrow  reminds 
Sme  of  some  of  the  lukewarm  and  abortive  characters, 
*  composed  of  heterogeneous  materials,  used  for  the  thou- 
sandth time,  and  never  worth  using,  with  which  romance 
writers  (and  myself,  no  doubt,  among  the  rest)  have  so 
overpeopled  the  world  of  fiction. 

But  the  fierce  old  hag  began  to  get  angry  and  show 
a  glimpse  of  her  diabolic  nature  (like  a  snake's  head, 
peeping  with  a  hiss  out  of  her  bosom)  at  this  pusillani- 
mous behavior  of  the  thing  which  she  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  put  together. 

"  Puff  away,  wretch  !  "  cried  she,  wrathfully.  "  Puff, 
puff,  puff,  thou  thing  of  straw  and  emptiness!  thou  rag 
or  two  !  thou  meal-bag  !  thou  pumpkin-head  !  thou  noth- 
ing !  Where  shall  I  find  a  name  vile  enough  to  call  thee 
by  ?  Puff,  I  say,  and  suck  in  thy  fantastic  life  along 
with  the  smoke ;  else  I  snatch  the  pipe  from  thy  mouth 
and  hurl  thee  where  that  red  coal  came  from." 

Thus  threatened,  the  unhappy  scarecrow  had  nothing 
for  it  but  to  puff  away  for  dear  life.  As  need  was,  there- 
fore, it  applied  itself  lustily  to  the  pipe  and  sent  forth 
such  abundant  volleys  of  tobacco-smoke  that  the  small 
cottage-kitchen  became  all  vaporous.  The  one  sunbeam 
struggled  mistily  through,  and  could  but  imperfectly  de- 


FEATHERTOP  207 

fine  the  image  of  the  cracked  and  dusty  window-pane  on 
the  opposite  wall.  Mother  Rigby,  meanwhile,  with  one 
brown  arm  akimbo  and  the  other  stretched  towards  the 
figure,  loomed  grimly  amid  the  obscurity  with  such  port 
and  expression  as  when  she  was  wont  to  heave  a  ponder- 
ous nightmare  on  her  victims  and  stand  at  the  bedside 
to  enjoy  their  agony.  In  fear  and  trembling  did  this 
poor  scarecrow  puff.  But  its  efforts,  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged, served  an  excellent  purpose ;  for,  with  each  suc- 
cessive whiff,  the  figure  lost  more  and  more^of  its  dizzy 
and  perplexing  tenuity  and  seemed  to  take  denser  sub- 
stance. Its  very  garments,  moreover,  partook  of  the 
magical  change,  and  shone  with  the  gloss  of  novelty  and 
glistened  with  the  skilfully  embroidered  gold  that  had 
long  ago  been  rent  away.  And,  half  revealed  among  the 
smoke,  a  yellow  visage  bent  its  lustreless  eyes  on  Mother 
Rigby. 

At  last  the  old  witch  clinched  her  fist  and  shook  it 
at  the  figure.     Not  that  she  was  positively  angry,  but 
merely  acting  on  the  principle  —  perhaps  untrue,  or  not 
the  only  truth,  though  as  high  a  one  as  Mother  Rigby   ( 
could  be  expected   to  attain -^mat ^  fe.e^le__jLnd_jt^rpid_ 
natures,  being  incapable  of  better  Jnspiratio^  must  be 
slirre6T~up  by  fear. .   But  here  was  the  crisis.     Should 
she  fail  in  what  sh'e  now  sought  to  effect,  it  was  her 
ruthless  purpose  to  scatter  the  miserable  simulacre  into 
its  original  elements. 

"  Thou  hast  a  man's  aspect,"  said  she,  sternly.  "  Have 
also  the  echo  and  mockery  of  a  voice!  I^bid_thee  speakj ' ' 

The  scarecrow  gasped,  struggled,  and  at  length  emitted 
a  murmur,  which  was  so  incorporated  with  its  smoky 
breath  that  you  could  scarcely  tell  whether  it  were  in- 
deed a  voice  or  only  a  whiff  of  tobacco.  Some  narrators 
of  this  legend  hold  the  opinion  that  Mother  Rigby's  con- 
jurations and  the  fierceness  of  her  will  had  compelled  a 
familiar  spirit  into  the  figure,  and  that  the  voice  was  his. 

"  Mother,"  mumbled  the  poor  stifled  voice,  "  be  not 
so  awful  with  me !  I  would  fain  speak ;  but  being  with- 
out wits,  what  can  I  say  ?" 

"Thou    canst  speak,    darling,   canst    thou?"    cried 


208     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

Mother  Rigby,  relaxing  her  grim  countenance  into  a 
smile.  "And  what  shalt  thou  say,  quotha!  Say,  in- 
deed !  Art  thou  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  empty  skull, 
and  demandest  of  me  what  thou  shalt  say?  Thou  shalt 
say  a  thousand  things,  and  saying  them  a  thousand  times 
over,  thou  shalt  still  have  said  nothing !  Be  not  afraid, 
I  tell  thee !  When  thou  comest  into  the  world  (whither 
I  purpose  sending  thee  forthwith),  thou  shalt  not  lack  • 
the  wherewithal  to  talk.  Talk  !  Why,  thou  shalt  bab- 
ble like  a  mill-stream,  if  thou  wilt.  Thou  hast  brains 
enough  for  that,  I  trow !  " 

"  At  your  service,  mother,"  responded  the  figure. 

"  And  that  was  well  said,  my  pretty  one,"  answered 
Mother  Rigby.  "  T_hen_  thou  spakest  like  thyself,  and 
meant  nothing.  Thou  shalt  have  a  hundred  such  set 
phrases,  and  five  hundred  to  the  boot  of  them.  And 
now,  darling,  I  have  taken  so  much  pains  with  thee, 
and  thou  art  so  beautiful,  that,  by  my  troth,  I  love  thee 
better  than  any  witch's  puppet  in  the  world ;  and  I  've 
made  them  of  all  sorts,  —  clay,  wax,  straw,  sticks,  night- 
fog,  morning-mist,  sea-foam,  and  chimney-smoke.  But 
thou  art  the  very  best.  So  give  heed  to  what  I  say." 

"Yes,  kind  mother,"  said  the  figure,  "with  all  my 
heart ! " 

"With  all  thy  heart!"  cried  the  old  witch,  setting 
her  hands  to  her  sides  and  laughing  loudly.  "Thou 
hast  such  a  pretty  way  of  speaking.  With  all  thy 
heart !  And  thou  didst  put  thy  hand  to  the  left  side 
of  thy  waistcoat,  as  if  thou  really  hadst  one  !  " 

So  now,  in  high  good-humor  with  this  fantastic  con- 
trivance of  hers,  Mother  Rigby  told  the  scarecrow  that 
it  must  go  and  play  its  part  in  the  great  world,  where 
not  one  man  in  a  hundred,,  she  affirmed,  was  gifted  with 
more  real  substance  than  itself.  And,  that  he  might 
hold  up  his  head  with  the  best  of  them,  she  endowed 
him,  on  the  spot,  with  an  unreckonable.  .amount  of 
wealth.  _It  consisted  partly  of  a  gold  mine  in  Eldorado, 
ancToTTen  thousand  shares  in  a  broken  bubble,  and  of 
half  a  million  acres  of  vineyard  at  the  North  Pole,  and 
of  a  castle  in  the  air,  and  a  chateau  in  Spain,  together 


FEATHERTOP  209 

with  all  the  rents  and  income  therefrom  accruing.  She 
further  made  over  to  him  the  cargo  of  a  certain  ship, 
laden  with  salt  of  Cadiz,  which  she  herself,  by  her  nec- 
romantic arts,  had  caused  to  founder,  ten  years  before, 
in  the  deepest  part  of  mid-ocean.  If  the  salt  were  not 
dissolved,  and  could  be  brought  to  market,  it  would 
fetch  a  pretty  penny  among  the  fishermen.  That  he 
might  not  lack  ready  money,  she  gave  him  a  copper  far- 
thing of  Birmingham  manufacture,  being  all  the  coin 
she  had  about  her,  and  likewise  a  great  deal  of  brass, 
which  she  applied  to  his  forehead,  thus  making  it  yel- 
lower than  ever. 

"  With  that  brass  alone,"  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  "  thou 
canst  pay  thy  way  all  over  the  earth.  Kiss  me,  pretty 
darling  !  I  have  done  my  best  for  thee." 

Furthermore,  that  the  adventurer  might  lack  no  pos- 
sible advantage  towards  a  fair  start  in  life,  this  excellent 
old  dameave_him  aVtok^n  hy  which  he  was  to  intro- 

rn<arnb'ar  of  the 


^ 

council,  merchant)  and  elder  'of  the  church  (the  four 
capacities  constituting  "but'Tmc-marr),  who  stood  at  the 
head  of  society  in  the  neighboring  metropolis.  The 
token  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  single  word  which 
Mother  Rigby  whispered  to  the  scarecrow,  and  which 
the  scarecrow  was  to  whisper  to  the  merchant. 

"  Gouty  as  the  old  fellow  is,  he  '11  run  thy  errands  for 
thee  when  once  thou  hast  given  him  that  word  in  his 
ear,"  said  the  old  witch.  "  Mother  Rigby  knows  the 
worshipful  Justice  Gookinf  and  the  worshipful  Justice 
knows  Mother  Rigby  !  " 

Here  the  witch  thrust  her  wrinkled  face  close  to 
the  puppet's,  chuckling  irrepressibly,  and  fidgeting  all 
through  her  system,  with  delight  at  the  idea  which  she 
meant  to  communicate. 

"The  worshipful  Master  Gookin,"  whispered  she, 
"  hath  a  cjimelymaiden  to  his  daughter^  And  hark  ye, 
my  pet  !  Thou  hast  a  iair  oillside,"aiid  a  pretty  wit 
enough  of  thine  own.  Yea,  a  pretty  wit  enough  !  Thou 
wilt  think  better  of  it  when  thou  hast  seen  more  of  other 
people's  wits.  Now,  with  thy  outside  and  thy  inside, 


2io     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

thou  art  the  very  man  to  win  a  young  girl's  heart.  Never 
doubt  it !  I  tell  thee  it  shall  be  so.  Put  but  a  bold  face 
on  the  matter,  sigh,  smile,  flourish  thy  hat,  thrust  forth 
thy  leg  like  a  dancing-master,  put  thy  right  hand  to  the 
left  side  of  thy  waistcoat,  and  pretty  Polly  Gookin  is 
thine  own ! " 

All  this  while  the  new  creature  had  been  sucking  in 
and  exhaling  the^vajp^iy_fragjance  of  his  pipe,  and 
seemed  now  to  continue  this  occupation  as  much  for  the 
enjoyment  it  afforded  as  because  it  was  an  essential  con- 
dition of  his  existence.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  how" 
exceedingly  like  a  human  being  it  behaved.  Its  eyes 
(for  it  appeared  to  possess  a  pair)  were  bent  on  Mother 
Rigby,  and  at  suitable  junctures  it  nodded  or  shook  its 
head.  Neither  did  it  lack  words  proper  for  the  occa- 
sion :  "  Really !  Indeed !  Pray  tell  me  !  Is  it  possible ! 
Upon  my  word !  By  no  means  !  Oh !  Ah  !  Hem  !  " 
and  other  such  weighty  utterances  as  imply  attention, 
inquiry,  acquiescence,  or  dissent  on  the  part  of  the  audi- 
tor. Even  had  you  stood  by  and  seen  the  scarecrow 
made,  you  could  scarcely  have  resisted  the  conviction 
that  it  perfectly  understood  the  cunning  counsels  which 
the  old  witch  poured  into  its  counterfeit  of  an  ear.  The 
more  earnestly  it  applied  its  lips  to  the  pipe  the  more 
distinctly  was  its  human  likeness  stamped  among  visible 
realities,  the  more  sagacious  grew  its  expression,  the 
more  lifelike  its  gestures  and  movements,  and  the  more 
intelligibly  audible  its  voice.  Its  garments,  too,  glistened 
so  much  the  brighter  with  an  illusory  magnificence.  The 
very  pipe,  in  which  burned  the  spell  of  all  this  wonder- 
work, ceased  to  appear  as  a  smoke-blackened  earthen 
stump,  and  became  a  meerschaum,  with  painted  bowl 
and  amber  mouthpiece. 

It  might  be  apprehended,  however,  that  as . the  life  of 
tJiedllusioii-seemed-identicaJi  with  the  vapor  of  the  pipe,  it 
would  terminate  simultaneously  with  the  reduction  of  the 
tobacco  to  ashes.  Bui-ihe  beldam  foresaw  the  difficulty. 

"  Hold  thou  the  pipe,  my  precious  one,"  said  she, 
"while  I  fill  it  for  thee  again." 

It  was  sorrowful  to  behold  how  the  fine  gentleman 


FEATHERTOP  211 

began  to  fade. back  into  .a -scarecrow  while  Mother 
Rigby  shook  the  ashes  out  of  the  pipe  and  proceeded 
to  replenish  it  from  her  tobacco-box. 

"  Dickon,"  cried  she,  in  her  high,  sharp  tone,  "  another 
coal  for  this  pipe !  " 

No  sooner  said  than  the  intensely  red  speck  of  fire 
was  glowing  within  the  pipe-bowl ;  and  the  scarecrow, 
without  waiting  for  the  witch's  bidding,  applied  the  tube 
to  his  lips  and  drew  in  a  few  short,  convulsive  whiffs, 
which  soon,  however,  became  regular  and  equable. 

"  Now,  mine  own  heart's  darling,"  quoth  Mother 
Rigby,  "whatever  may  happen  to  thee,  thou  must 
stick  to  thy  pipe.  Thy  life  isjnjit ;  and  that,  at  least, 
thou  knowest  well,  if  Thou  knowest  naught  besides. 
Stick  to  thy  pipe,  I  say !  Smoke,  puff,  blow  thy  cloud ; 
and  tell  the  people,  if  any  question  be  made,  that  it  is 
for  thy  health,  and  that  so  the  physician  orders  thee  to 
do.  And,  sweet  one,  when  thou  shalt  find  thy  pipe  get- 
ting low,  go  apart  into  some  corner  and  (first  filling  thy- 
self with  smoke)  cry  sharply,  '  Dickon,  a  fresh  pipe  of 
tobacco ! '  and,  '  Dickon,  another  coal  for  my  pipe ! ' 
and  have  it  into  thy  pretty  mouth  as  speedily  as  may 
be.  Else,  instead  of  a  gallant  gentleman  in  a  gold-laced 
coat,  thou  wilt  be  but  a  jumble  of  sticks  and  tattered 
clothes,  and  a  bag  of  straw,  and  a  withered  pumpkin ! 
Now  depart,  my  treasure,  and  good  luck  go  with  thee !  " 

"  Never  fear,   mother ! "  said  the  figure,   in  a  stout 

voice,  and  sending  forth  a  courageous  whiff  of  smoke. 

\  "  I  will  thrive,  if  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman  may  !  " 

"  Oh,  thou  wilt  be  the  death  of  me !  "  cried  the  old 
witch,  convulsed  with  laughter.  "  That  was  well  said. 
If  an  honest  man  and  a  gentleman  may  !  Thou  playest 
thy  part  to  perfection.  Get  along  with  thee  for  a  smart 
fellow ;  and  I  will  wager  on  thy  head,  as  a  man  of  pith 
and  substance,  with  a  brain,  and  what  they  call  a  heart, 
and  all  else  that  a  man  should  have,  against  any  other 
thing  on  two  legs.  I  hold  myself  a  better  witch  than 
yesterday,  for  thy  sake.  Did  not  I  make  thee  ?  And  I 
defy  any  witch  in  New  England  to  make  such  another ! 
Here ;  take  my  staff  along  with  thee !  " 


212     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

The  staff,  though  it  was  but  a  plain  oaken  stick, 
immediately  took  the  aspect  of  a  gold-headed  cane. 

"That  gold  head  has  as  much  sense  in  it  as  thine 
own,"  said  Mother  Rigby,  "  and  it  will  guide  thee 
straight  to  worshipful  Master  Gookin's  door.  Get  thee 
gone,  my  pretty  pet,  my  darling,  my  precious  one,  my 
treasure ;  and  if  any  ask  thy_  name,  it  is  Feathertop. 
For  thou  hast  a  feather  in  thy  hat,  and  I  have  thrust  a 
handful  of  feathers  into  the  hollow  of  thy  head,  and  thy 
wig  too  is  of  the  fashion  they  call  Feathertop,  —  so  be 
Feathertop  thy  name !  ** 

And,  issuing  from  the  cottage,  Feathertop  strode 
manfully  towards  town.  Mother  Rigby  stood  at  the 
threshold,  well  pleased  to  see  how  the  sunbeams  glis- 
tened on  him,  as  if  all  his  magnificence  were  real,  and 
how  diligently  and  lovingly  he  smoked  his  pipe,  and 
how  handsomely  he  walked,  in  spite  of  a  little  stiffness 
of  his  legs.  She  watched  him  until  out  of  sight,  and 
threw  a  witch  benediction  after  her  darling,  when  a 
turn  of  the  road  snatched  him  from  her  view. 

Betimes  in  the  forenoon,  when  the  principal  street 
of  the  neighboring  town  was  just  at  its  acme  of  life 
and  bustle,  a  stranger  of  very  distinguished  figure  was 
seen  on  the  sidewalk.  His  port  as  well  as  his  garments 
betokened  nothing  short  of  nobility.  He  wore  a  richly 
embroidered  plum-colored  coat,  a  waistcoat  of  costly  vel- 
vet magnificently  adorned  with  golden  foliage,  a  pair  of 
splendid  scarlet  breeches,  and  the  finest  and  glossiest  of 
white  silk  stockings.  His  head  was  covered  with  a  per- 
uke, so  daintily  powdered  and  adjusted  that  it  would 
have  been  sacrilege  to  disorder  it  with  a  hat;  which, 
therefore  (and  it  was  a  gold-laced  hat,  set  off  with  a 
snowy  feather),  he  carried  beneath  his  arm.  On  the 
breast  of  his  coat  glistened  a  star.  He  managed  his 
gold-headed  cane  with  an  airy  grace  peculiar  to  the 
fine  gentlemen  of  the  period ;  and,  to  give  the  highest 
possible  finish  to  his  equipment,  he  had  lace  ruffles  at 
his  wrist,  of  a  most  ethereal  delicacy,  sufficiently  avouch- 
ing how  idle  and  aristocratic  must  be  the  hands  which 
they  half  concealed. 


FEATHERTOP  213 

It  was  a  remarkable  point  in  the  accoutrement  of  this 
brilliant  personage,  that  he  held  in  his  left  hand  a  fan- 
tastic kind  of  a  pipe,  with  an  exquisitely  painted  bowl 
and  an  amber  mouthpiece.  This  he  applied  to  his  lips 
as  often  as  every  five  or  six  paces,  and  inhaled  a  deep 
whiff  of  smoke,  which,  after  being  retained  a  moment 
in  his  lungs,  might  be  seen  to  eddy  gracefully  from  his 
mouth  and  nostrils. 

As  may  well  be  supposed,  the  street  was  all  astir  to 
find  out  the  stranger's  name. 

"  It  is  some  great  nobleman,  beyond  question,"  said 
one  of  the  townspeople.  "  Do  you  see  the  star  at  his 
breast  ? " 

"  Nay ;  it  is  too  bright  to  be  seen,"  said  another. 
"  Yes ;  he  must  needs  be  a  nobleman,  as  you  say.  But 
by  what  conveyance,  think  you,  can  his  lordship  have 
voyaged  or  travelled  hither  ?  There  has  been  no  vessel 
from  the  old  country  for  a  month  past ;  and  if  he  have 
arrived  overland,  from  the  southward,  pray  where  are 
his  attendants  and  equipage  ? " 

"  He  needs  no  equipage  to  set  off  his  rank,"  remarked 
a  third.  "  If  he  came  among  us  in  rags,  nobility  would 
shine  through  a  hole  in  his  elbow.  I  never  saw  such 
dignity  of  aspect.  He  has  the  old  Norman  blood  in  his 
veins,  I  warrant  him." 

"  I  rather  take  him  to  be  a  Dutchman,  or  one  of  your 
high  Germans,"  said  another  citizen.  "The  men  of 
those  countries  have  always  the  pipe  at  their  mouths." 

"And  so  has  a  Turk,"  answered  his  companion. 
"  But,  in  my  judgment,  this  stranger  hath  been  bred 
at  the  French  court,  and  hath  there  learned  politeness 
and  grace  of  manner,  which  none  understand  so  well  as 
the  nobility  of  France.  JQhatgait,  now !  A  vulgar  spec- 
tator might  deem  it  stiff,  —  he~mighf ~caTTTt  aTiitch  and 
jerk, — but,  to  my  eye,  it  hath  an  unspeakable  maj- 
esty, and  must  have  been  acquired  by  constant  observa- 
tion of  the  deportment  of  the  Grand  Monarque.  The 
stranger's  character  and  office  are  evident  enough.  He 
is  a  French  ambassador,  come  to  treat  with  our  rulers 
about  the  cession  of  Canada." 


214     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"More  probably  a  Spaniard,"  said  another,  "and 
hence  his  yellow  complexion ;  or,  most  likely,  he  is 
from  the  Havana,  or  from  some  port  on  the  Spanish 
main,  and  comes  to  make  investigation  about  the  pira- 
cies which  our  governor  is  thought  to  connive  at.  Those 
settlers  in  Peru  and  Mexico  have  skins  as  yellow  as  the 
gold  which  they  dig  out  of  their  mines." 

"Yellow  or  not,"  cried  a  lady,  "he  is  a  beautiful 
man !  —  so  tall,  so  slender !  such  a  fine,  noble  face, 
with  so  well-shaped  a  nose,  and  all  that  delicacy  of 
expression  about  the  mouth !  And,  bless  me,  how 
bright  his  star  is!  It  positively  shoots  out  flames!" 

"So  do  your  eyes,  fair  lady,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
a  bow  and  a  flourish  of  his  pipe ;  for  he  was  just  passing 
at  the  instant.  "  Upon  my  honor,  they  have  quite  daz- 
zled me." 

"  Was  ever  so  original  and  exquisite  a  compliment  ?  " 
murmured  the  lady,  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Amid  the  general  admiration  excited  by  the  stranger's 
appearance,  there  were  only  two  dissenting  voices.  One 
was  that  of  an  impertinent  cury'which,  after  snuffing  at 
the  heels  of  the  glistening  figure,  put  its  tail  between  its 
legs  and  skulked  into  its  master's  back-yard,  vociferating 
an  execrable  howl.  The  other  dissentient  was  a.  young 
child1'who_^qualle_d  at  the  fullest  stretch  of  his  lungs;  and 
babbled  some  unintelligible  nonsense  about  a  pumpkin. 

Feathertop,  meanwhile,  pursued  his  way  along  the 
street.  Except  for  the  few  complimentary  words  to  the 
lady,  and  now  and  then  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head 
in  requital  of  the  profound  reverences  of  the  by-standers, 
he  seemed  wholly  absorbed  in  his  pipe.  There  needed 
no  other  proof  of  his  rank  and  consequence  than  the 
perfect  equanimity  with  which  he  comported  himself, 
while  the  curiosity  and  admiration  of  the  town  swelled 
almost  into  clamor  around  him.  With  a  crowd  gather- 
ing behind  his  footsteps,  he  finally  reached  the  mansion- 
house  of  the  worshipful  Justice  Gookin,  entered  the 
gate,  ascended  the  steps  of  the  front  door,  and  knocked. 
In  the  interim,  before  his  summons  was  answered,  the 
stranger  was  observed  to  shake  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 


FEATHERTOP  215 

"  What  did  he  say  in  that  sharp  voice  ? "  inquired  one 
of  the  spectators. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,"  answered  his  friend.  "  But  the 
sun  dazzles  my  eyes  strangely.  How  dim  and  faded  his 
lordship  looks  all  of  a  sudden  !  Bless  my  wits,  what  is 
the  matter  with  me  ? " 

"The  wonder  is,"  said  the  other,  "that  his  pipe, 
which  was  out  only  an  instant  ago,  should  be  all  alight 
again,  and  with  the  reddest  coal  I  ever  saw.  There  is 
something  mysterious  about  this  stranger.  What  a  whiff 
of  smoke  was  that !  Dim  and  faded  did  you  call  him  ? 
Why,  as  he  turns  about,  the  star  on  his  breast  is  all 
ablaze." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  his  companion ;  "  and  it  will  go 
near  to  dazzle  pretty  Polly  Gookin,  whom  I  see  peeping 
at  it  out  of  the  chamber-window." 

The  door  being  now  opened,  Feathertop  turned  to  the 
crowd,  made  a  stately  bend  of  his  body  like  a  great  man 
acknowledging  the  reverence  of  the  meaner  sort,  and 
vanished  into  the  house.  There  was  a  mysterious  kind 
of  a  smile,  if  it  might  not  better  be  called  a  grin  or 
grimace,  upon  his  visage ;  but,  of  all  the  throng  that 
beheld  him,  not  an  individual  appears  to  have  possessed 
insight  enough  to  detect  the  illusive  character  of  the 
stranger  except  a  little  child  and  a  cur  dog. 

Our  legend  here  loses  somewhat  of  its  continuity, 
and,  passing  over  the  preliminary  explanation  between 
Feathertop  and  the  merchant,  goes  in  quest  of  the  pretty 
Polly  Gookin.  She  was  a  damsel  of  a  soft,  round  figure, 
with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  a  fair,  rosy  face, 
which  seemed  neither  very  shrewd  nor  very  simple. 
This  young  lady  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  glistening 
stranger  while  standing  at  the  threshold,  and  had  forth- 
with put  on  a  laced  cap,  a  string  of  beads,  her  finest 
kerchief,  and  her  stiffest  damask  petticoat,  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  interview.  Hurrying  from  her  chamber  to 
the  parlor,  she  had  ever  since  been  viewing  herself  in 
the  large  looking-glass  and  practising  pretty  airs,  —  now 
a  smile,  now  a  ceremonious  dignity  of  aspect,  and  now 
a  softer  smile  than  the  former,  kissing  her  hand  likewise, 


2i6     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

tossing  her  head,  and  managing  her  fan ;  while  within 
the  mirror  an  unsubstantial  little  maid  repeated  every 
gesture  and  did  all  the  foolish  things  that  Polly  did,  but 
without  making  her  ashamed  of  them.  In  short,  it  was  / 
the  fault  of  pretty  Polly's  ability  rather  than  her  will  if 
she  failed  to  be  as  complete  an  artifice  as  the  illustrious 
Feathertop  himself ;  and,  when  she  thus  tampered  with 
her  own  simplicity,  the  witch's  phantom  might  well  hope 
to  win  her. 

No  sooner  did  Polly  hear  her  father's  gouty  footsteps 
approaching  the  parlor-door,  accompanied  with  the  stiff 
clatter  of  Feathertop's  high-heeled  shoes,  than  she  seated 
herself  bolt  upright  and  innocently  began  warbling  a 
song. 

"  Polly  !  daughter  Polly  !  "  cried  the  old  merchant. 
"  Come  hither,  child." 

Master  Gookin's  aspect,  as  he  opened  the  door,  was 
doubtful  and  troubled. 

"  This  gentleman,"  continued  he,  presenting  the  stran- 
ger, "  is  the  Chevalier  Feathertop,  —  nay,  I  beg  his 
pardon,  my  Lord  Feathertop,  —  who  hath  brought  me 
a  token  of  remembrance  from  an  ancient  friend  of  mine. 
Pay  your  duty  to  his  lordship,  child,  and  honor  him  as 
his  quality  deserves." 

After  these  few  words  of  introduction,  the  worshipful 
magistrate  immediately  quitted  the  room.  But,  even 
in  that  brief  moment,  had  the  fair  Polly  glanced  aside 
at  her  father  instead  of  devoting  herself  wholly  to  the 
brilliant  guest,  she  might  have  taken  warning  of  some 
mischief  nigh  at  hand.  X.hejDld  man  was  nervous, 
fidgety,  and  very  pale.  Purposing  a  smile  of  courtesy, 
he  had  deformed  his  face  with  a  sort  of  galvanic  grin, 
which,  when  Feathertop's  back  was  turned,  he  ex- 
changed for  a  scowl,  at  the  same  time  shaking  his  fist 
and  stamping  his  gouty  foot,  —  an  incivility  which 
brought  its  retribution  along  with  it.  The  truth  ap- 
pears to  have  been,  that  Mother  Rigby's  word  of  intro- 
duction, whatever  it  might  be,  had  operated  far  more 
on  the  rich  merchant's  fears  than  on  his  good-will. 
Moreover,  being  a  man  of  wonderfully  acute  observa- 


FEATHERTOP  217 

tion,  he  had  noticed  that  .the  painted  figures  on  the  bowl 

Of    FeathertOp>    pipe    W*rvT in    rmpf-j^n  T  .nn'lHngr    Tr.r>r> 

closely,  he  became  convinced  that  these  figures  were  a 
party  of  little  dpmnn<;,  ^arh^jduly  provlcted"'with' "iidt'liis 
<UU|_a*  tail,  ajxd^dRncingJba^d^Ealid,^  wllli  geatuiLs-ef 
diabolical  merriment,  round  the  circumference  of  the 
pipe-bowl.  As  if  to  confirm  his  suspicions,  while  Mas- 
ter Gookin  ushered  his  guest  along  a  dusky  passage 
from  his  private  room  to  the  parlor,  th^-etais-en.^Feath- 
ertop's  breast  had  scintillated  actual  flames,  and  threw 
a  flickering  gleam  upon  the  wall,  the  ceiling,  and  the 
floor. 

With  such  sinister  prognostics  manifesting  themselves 
on  all  hands,  it  is  not  to  be  marvelled  at  that  the  mer- 
chant should  have  felt  that  he  was  committing  his  daugh- 
ter to  a  very  questionable  acquaintance.  He  cursed,  in 
his  secret  soul,  the  insinuating  elegance  of  Feathertop's 
manners,  as  this  brilliant  personage  bowed,  smiled,  put 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  inhaled  a  long  whiff  from  his 
pipe,  and  enriched  the  atmosphere  with  the  smoky  vapor 
of  a  fragrant  and  visible  sigh.  Gladly  would  poor  Master 
Gookin  have  thrust  his  dangerous  guest  into  the  street  ; 
but  there  was  a  constraint  and  terror  within  him.  This 
respectable  old  gentleman,  we  fear,  at  an  earlier  period 
of  life,  had  given  some  pledge  or  other  to  the  evil- 
principle,  and  perhaps  was  now  to  redeem  it  by  the 
sacrifice  of  his  daughter. 

It  so  happened  that  the  parlor-door  was  partly  of 
glass,  shaded  by  a  silken  curtain,  the  folds  of  which 
hung  a  little  awry.  So  strong  was  the  merchant's  in- 
terest in  witnessing  what  was  to  ensue  between  the  fair 
Polly  and  the  gallant  Feathertop,  that  after  quitting  the 
room  he  could  by  no  means  refrain  from  peeping  through 
the  crevice  of  the  curtain. 

But  there  was  nothing  very  miraculous  to  be  seen  ; 
nothing  —  except  the  trifles  previously  noticed — to  con- 
firm the  idea  of  a  supernatural  peril  environing  the  pretty 
Polly.  The  stranger,  it  is  true,  was  evidently  a  thorough 
and  practised  man  of  the  world,  systematic  and  self- 
possessed,  and  therefore  the  sort  of  a  person  to  whom 


2i 8     MOSSES    FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

a  parent  ought  not  to  confide  a  simple,  young  girl,  with- 
out due  watchfulness  for  the  result.  The  worthy  magis- 
trate, who  had  been  conversant  with  all  degrees  and 
qualities  of  mankind,  could  not  but  perceive  every  motion 
and  gesture  of  the  distinguished  Feathertop  came  in  its 
proper  place ;  nothing  had  been  left  rude  or  native  in 
him ;  a  well-digested  conventionalism  had  incorporated 
itself  thoroughly  with  his  substance  and  transformed  him 
into  a  work  of  art.  Perhaps  it  was  this  peculiarity  that 
invested  him  with  a  species  of  ghastliness  and  awe.  It 
is  the  effect  of  anything  completely  and  consuirimately 
artificial,  in  human  shape,  that  the  person  impresses  us 
as  an  unreality  and  as  having  hardly  pith  enough  to 
cast  a  shadow  upon  the  floor.  As  regarded  Feathertop, 
all  this  resulted  in  a  wild,  extravagant,  and  fantastical 
impression,  as  if  his  life  and  being  were  akin  to  the 
smoke  that  curled  upward  from  his  pipe. 

But  pretty  Polly  Gookin  felt  not  tl^is-  The  pair  were 
now  promenading  the  room ;  Feathertop  with  his  dainty 
stride  and  no  less  dainty  grimace ;  the  girl  with  a  native 
maidenly  grace,  just  touched,  not  spoiled,  by  a  slightly 
affected  manner,  which  seemed  caught  from  the  perfect 
artifice  of  her  companion.  The  longer  the  interview 
continued,  the  more  charmed  was  pretty  Polly,  until, 
within  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  (as  the  old  magistrate 
noted  by  his  watch),  she  was  evidently  beginning  to  be 
in  love.  Nor  need  it  have  been  witchcraft  that  subdued 
her  in  such  a  hurry;  the  poor  child's  heart,  it  may  be,, 
was  so  very  fervent  that  it  melted  her  with  its  own 
warmth  as  reflected  from  the  hollow  semblance  of  a 
lover.  No  matter  what  Feathertop  said,  his  words  found 
depth  and  reverberation  in  her  ear ;  no  matter  what  he 
did,  his  action  was  heroic  to  her  eye.  And  by  this  time 
it  is  to  be  supposed  there  was  a  blush  on  Polly's  cheek, 
a  tender  smile  about  her  mouth,  and  a  liquid  softness  in 
her  glance  ;  while  the  star  kept  coruscating  on  Feather- 
top's  breast,  and  the  little  demons  careered  with  more 
frantic  merriment  than  ever  about  the  circumference  of 
his  pipe-bowl.  O  pretty  Polly  Gookin,  why  should  these 
imps  rejoice  so  madly  that  a  silly  maiden's  heart  was 


FEATHERTOP  219 

about  to  be  given  to  a  shadow  !     Is  it  so  unusual  a  mis- 
fortune, so  rare  a  triumph  ? 

By  and  by  Feathertop  paused,  and,  throwing  himself 
into  an  imposing  attitude,  seemed  to  summon  the  fair 
girl  to  survey  his  figure  and  resist  him  longer  if  she 
could.  His  star,  his  embroidery,  his  buckles,  glowed  at 
that  instant  with  unutterable  splendor ;  the  picturesque 
hues  of  his  attire  took  a  richer  depth  of  coloring  ;  there 
was  a  gleam  and  polish  over  his  whole  presence  betoken- 
ing the  perfect  witchery  of  well-ordered  manners.  The 
maiden  raised  her  eyes  and  suffered  them  to  linger  upon 
her  companion  with  a  bashful  and  admiring  gaze.  Then, 
as  if  desirous  of  judging-what-value  her  own  simple  come- 
liness might  have  side  by  side  with  so  much  brilliancy, 
she  cast  a  glance  towards  the  full-length  looking-glass' in 
front  of  which  they  happened  to  be  standing.  It  was 
one  of  the  truest  plates  in  the  world,  and  incapable, of  i 
flattery.  No  sooner  did  the  images  therein  reflected 
meet  Polly's  eye  than  she  shrieked,  shrank  from  the 
stranger's  side,  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  the  wildest 
dismay,  and  sank  insensible  upon  the  floor.  Feathertop 
likewise  had  looked  towards  the  mirror,  and  there  beheld, 
not  the  glittering  mockery  of  his  outside  show,  but  a 
picture  of  the  sordid  patchwork  of  his  real  composition,  " 
stripped  of  all  witchcraft. 

The  wretched  simulacrum  !  We  almost  pity  him.  He 
threw  up  his  arms  with  an  expression  of  despair  that 
went  further  than  any  of  his  previous  manifestations 
towards  vindicating  his  claims  to  be  reckoned  human  S 
for,  perchance  the  only  time  since  this  so  often  empty 
and  deceptive  life  of  mortals  began  its  course,  an  illu- 
sion had  seen  and  fully  recognized  itself. 

Mother  Rigby  was  seated  by  her  kitchen  hearth  in 
the  twilight  of  this  eventful  day,  and  had  just  shaken 
the  ashes  out  of  a  new  pipe,  when  she  heard  a  hurried 
tramp  along  the  road.  •  Yet  it  did  not  seem  so  much  the 
tramp  of  human  footsteps  as  the  clatter  of  sticks  or  the 
rattling  of  dry  bones. 

"Ha!"  thought  the  old  witch,  "what  step  is  that? 
Whose  skeleton  is  out  of  its  grave  now,  I  wonder  ? " 


g 
/p 


220     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

A  figure  burst  headlong  into  the  cottage-door.  It 
was  Feathertop  !  His  pipe  was  still  alight  ;  the  star  still 
flamed  upon  his  breast  ;  the  embroidery  still  glowed 
upon  his  garments  ;  nor  had  he  lost,  in  any  degree  or 
manner  that  could  be  estimated,  the  aspect  that  assimi- 
lated him  with  our  mortal  brotherhood.  But  yet,  in 
some  indescribable  way  (as  is  the  case  with  all  that  has 
deluded  us  when  once  found  out),  the  poor  reality  was 
felt  beneath  the  cunning  artifice. 

"What  has  gone  wrong?"  demanded  the  witch. 
"  Did  yonder  smiling  hypocrite  thrust  my  darling  from 
his  door  ?  The  villain  !  I  '11  set  twenty  fiends  to  tor- 
ment him  till  he  offer  thee  his  daughter  on  his  bended 
knees  !  " 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Feathertop,  despondingly  ;  "  it 
was  not  that." 

"  Did  the  girl  scorn  my  precious  one  ?  "  asked  Mother 
Rigby,  her  fierce  eyes  glowing  like  two  coals  of  Tophet. 
"  I  '11  cover  her  face  with  pimples  !  Her  nose  shall  be 
as  red  as  the  coal  in  thy  pipe  !  Her  front  teeth  shall 
drop  out  !  In  a  week  hence  she  shall  not  be  worth  thy 
having  !  " 

"  Let  her  alone,  mother,"  answered  poor  Feathertop  ; 
"  the  girl  was  half  won  ;  and  methinks  a  kiss  from  her 
sweet  lips  might  have  made  me  altogether  human. 
But,"  he  added,  after  a  brief  pause  and  then  a  howl 
of  self-contempt,  "  I  've  seen  myself,  mother  ]/\  've  seen 
myself  for  the  wretched,  ragged,  empty  thing  I  am  !  I  '11 
exist  no  longer  !  " 

Snatching  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  he  flung  it  with 
all  his  might  against  the  chimney,  and  at  the  same 
instant  sank  upon  the  floor  a  medley  of  straw  and  tat- 
tered garments,  with  some  sticks  protruding  from  the 
heap  and  a  shrivelled  pumpkin  in  the  midst.  The  eye- 
holes were  now  lustreless  ;  but  the  rudely  carved  gap, 
that  just  before  had  been  a  mouth,  still  seemed  to  twist 
itself  into  a  despairing  grin,  and  was  so  far  human. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  with  a  rueful 
lance  at  the  relics  of  her  ill-fated  contrivance.  "  My 
poor,  dear,  pretty  Feathertop!  There  are  thousands 


FEATHERTOP  221 

upon  thousands  of  coxcombs  and  charlatans  in  the 
world,  made  up  of  just  such  a  jumble  of  worn-out,  for- 
gotten, and  good-for-nothing  trash  as  he  was !  Yet  they 
live  in  fair  repute,  and  never  see  themselves  for  what 
they  are.  /\.nd  why  should  my  poor  puppet  be  the 
only  one  to  know  himself  and  perish  for  it  ? " 

While  thus  muttering,  the  witch  had  filled  a  fresh 
pipe  of  tobacco,  and  held  the  stem  between  her  fingers, 
as  doubtful  whether  to  thrust  it  into  her  own  mouth  or 
Feathertop's. 

"  Poor  Feathertop !  "  she  continued.  "  I  could  easily 
give  him  another  chance  and  send  him  forth  again  to- 
morrow. But  no ;  his  feelings  are  too  tender,  his  sen- 
sibilities too  deep.  He  seems  to  have  too  much  heart 
to  bustle  for  his  own  advantage  in  such  an  empty  and 
heartless  world.  Well!  well!  I'll  make  a  scarecrow - 
of  him  after  all.  'T  is  an  innocent  and  a  useful  voca- 
tion, and  will  suit  my  darling  well ;  and  if  each  of  his 
human  brethren  had  as  fit  a  one,  't  would  be  the  better 
for  mankind ;  and  as  for  this  pipe  of  tobacco,  I  need  it 
more  than  he." 

So  saying  Mother  Rigby  put  the  stem  between  her 
lips.  "  Dickon ! "  cried  she,  in  her  high,  sharp  tone, 
"  another  coal  for  my  pipe !  " 


MOSSES    FROM    AN 

OLD    MANSE 


VOL.  II. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900  AND  1902, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


CONTENTS 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE  ........        r 

EGOTISM  ;  OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT   .        .        .        .        .21 

THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET   ........      36 

DROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE  .......      57 

THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE  .......      71 

ER  MALVIN'S  BURIAL      .......      86 

P.'s  CORRESPONDENCE  \        .......     108 

EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST  "  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .127 

PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK     .        .        .        .149 

SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY     .......     165 

THE  OLD  APPLE-DEALER  ........     181 

THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  ......     189 

A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION  .  .216 


THE   NEW  ADAM   AND   EVE 

/ TXT'E*  who  are  born  into  the  world's  artificial  system, 
VV  can  never  adequately  know  how  little  in  our 
present  state  and  circumstances  is  natural,  and  how 
much  is  merely  the  interpolation  of  the  perverted  mind 
and  heart  of  man/  Art  has  become  a  second  and  stronger 
Nature ;  she  is  a  step-mother,  whose  crafty  tenderness 
has  taught  us  to  despise  the  bountiful  and  wholesome 
ministrations  of  our  true  parent.  It  is  only  through 
the  medium  of  the  imagination  that  we  can  lessen  those 
iron  fetters,  which  we  call  truth  and  reality,  and  make 
ourselves  even  partially  sensible  what  prisoners  we  are. 
For  instance,  let  us  conceive  good  Father  Miller's  inter- 
pretation of  the  prophecies  to  have  proved  true.  The 
Day  of  Doom  has  burst  upon  the  globe,  and  swept 
away  the  whole  race  of  men.  From  cities  and  fields, 
sea-shore,  and  mid-land  mountain  region,  vast  conti- 
nents, and  even  the  remotest  islands  of  the  ocean  — 
each  living  thing  is  gone.  No  breath  of  a  created 
being  disturbs  this  earthly  atmosphere.  But  the  abodes 
of  man,  and  all  that  he  has  accomplished,  the  footprints 
of  his  wanderings,  and  the  results  of  his  toil,  the  visible 
symbols  of  his  intellectual  cultivation  and  moral  progress 
—  in  short,  everything  physical  that  can  give  evidence 
of  his  present  position  —  shall  remain  untouched  by  the 
hand  of  destiny.  Then,  to  inherit  and  repeople  this 
waste  and  deserted  earth,  we  will  suppose  a  new  Adam 
and  a  new  Eve  to  have  been  created,  in  the  full  develop- 
ment of  mind  and  heart,  but  with  no  knowledge  of 
their  predecessors,  nor  of  the  diseased  circumstances 
that  had  become  encrusted  around  them.  Such  a  pair 
would  at  once  distinguish  between  art  and  nature. 
Their  instincts  and  intuitions  would  immediately  recog- 
nize the  wisdom  and  simplicity  of  the  latter,  while  the 


2       MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

former,  with  its  elaborate  perversities,  would  offer  them 
a  continual  succession  of  puzzles. 

Let  us  attempt,  in  a  mood  half-sportive  and  half- 
thoughtful,  to  track  these  imaginary  heirs  of  our  mor- 
tality through  their  first  day's  experience.  No  longer 
ago  than  yesterday,  the  flame  of  human  life  was  ex- 
tinguished ;  there  has  been  a  breathless  night ;  and 
now  another  morn  approaches,  expecting  to  find  the 
earth  no  less  desolate  than  at  eventide. 

It  is  dawn.  The  east  puts  on  its  immemorial  blush 
although  no  human  eye  is  gazing  at  it ;  for  all  the 
phenomena  of  the  natural  world  renew  themselves,  in 
spite  of  the  solitude  that  now  broods  around  the  globe. 
There  is  still  beauty  of  earth,  sea,  and  sky,  for  beauty's 
sake.  But  soon  there  are  to  be  spectators.  Just  when 
the  earliest  sunshine  gilds  earth's  mountain  tops,  two 
beings  have  come  into  life,  not  in  such  an  Eden  as 
bloomed  to  welcome  our  first  parents,  but  in  the  heart 
of  a  modern  city.  They  find  themselves  in  existence, 
and  gazing  into  one  another's  eyes.  Their  emotion  is 
not  astonishment ;  nor  do  they  perplex  themselves  with 
efforts  to  discover  what,  and  whence,  and  why  they 
are.  Each  is  satisfied  to  be,  because  the  other  exists 
likewise ;  and  their  first  consciousness  is  of  calm  and 
mutual  enjoyment,  which  seems  not  to  have  been  the 
birth  of  that  very  moment,  but  prolonged  from  a  past 
eternity.  Thus  content  with  an  inner  sphere  which 
they  inhabit  together,  it  is  not  immediately  that  the 
outward  world  can  obtrude  itself  upon  their  notice. 

Soon,  however,  they  feel  the  invincible  necessity  of 
this  earthly  life,  and  begin  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  objects  and  circumstances  that  surround  them. 
Perhaps  no  other  stride  so  vast  remains  to  be  taken, 
as  when  they  first  turn  from  the  reality  of  their  mutual 
glance,  to  the  dreams  and  shadows  that  perplex  them 
everywhere  else. 

"  Sweetest  Eve,  where  are  we  ? "  exclaims  the  new 
Adam,  —  for  speech,  or  some  equivalent  mode  of  ex- 
pression, is  born  with  them,  and  comes  just  as  natural 
as  breath ;  —  "  Methinks  I  do  not  recognize  this  place." 


THE   NEW   ADAM   AND    EVE          3 

"  Nor  I,  dear  Adam,"  replies  the  new  Eve.  "  And 
what  a  strange  place  too !  Let  me  come  closer  to  thy 
side,  and  behold  thee  only ;  for  all  other  sights  trouble 
and  perplex  my  spirit." 

"  Nay,  Eve,"  replies  Adam,  who  appears  to  have 
the  stronger  tendency  towards  the  material  world ; 
"  it  were  well  that  we  gain  some  insight  into  these 
matters.  We  are  in  an  odd  situation  here !  Let  us 
look  about  us." 

Assuredly,  there  are  sights  enough  to  throw  the  new 
inheritors  of  earth  into  a  state  of  hopeless  perplexity. 
The  long  lines  of  edifices,  their  windows  glittering  in 
the  yellow  sunrise,  and  the  narrow  street  between, 
with  its  barren  pavement,  tracked  and  battered  by 
wheels  that  have  now  rattled  into  an  irrevocable  past ! 
The  signs,  with  their  unintelligible  hieroglyphics  !  The 
squareness  and  ugliness,  and  regular  or  irregular  de- 
formity, of  everything  that  meets  the  eye !  The  marks 
of  wear  and  tear,  and  unrenewed  decay,  which  dis- 
tinguish the  works  of  man  from  the  growth  of  nature ! 
What  is  there  in  all  this,  capable  of  the  slightest  sig- 
nificance to  minds  that  know  nothing  of  the  artificial 
system  which  is  implied  in  every  lamp-post  and  each 
brick  of  the  houses?  Moreover,  the  utter  loneliness 
and  silence,  in  a  scene  that  originally  grew  out  of  noise 
and  bustle,  must  needs  impress  a  feeling  of  desolation 
even  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  unsuspicious  as  they  are  of 
the  recent  extinction  of  human  existence.  In  a  forest, 
solitude  would  be  life;  in  the  city,  it  is  death. 

The  new  Eve  looks  round  with  a  sensation  of  doubt 
and  distrust,  such  as  a  city  dame,  the  daughter  of 
numberless  generations  of  citizens,  might  experience, 
if  suddenly  transported  to  the  garden  of  Eden.  At 
length,  her  downcast  eye  discovers  a  small  tuft  of 
grass,  just  beginning  to  sprout  among  the  stones  of 
the  pavement;  she  eagerly  grasps  it,  and  is  sensible 
that  this  little  herb  awakens  some  response  within  her 
heart.  Nature  finds  nothing  else  to  offer  her.  Adam, 
after  staring  up  and  down  the  street,  without  detecting 
a  single  object  that  his  comprehension  can  lay  hold  of, 


4       MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

finally  turns  his  forehead  to  the  sky.  There,  indeed, 
is  something  which  the  soul  within  him  recognizes. 

"  Look  up  yonder,  mine  own  Eve !  "  he  cries ;  "surely 
we  ought  to  dwell  among  those  gold-tinged  clouds,  or 
in  the  blue  depth  beyond  them.  I  know  not  how  nor 
when,  but  evidently  we  have  strayed  away  from  our 
home;  for  I  see  nothing  hereabouts  that  seems  to  be- 
long to  us." 

"  Can  we  not  ascend  thither  ? "  inquires  Eve. 

"Why  not?"  answers  Adam,  hopefully.  "But  no! 
Something  drags  us  down  in  spite  of  our  best  efforts. 
Perchance  we  may  find  a  path  hereafter." 

In  the  energy  of  new  life,  it  appears  no  such  imprac- 
ticable feat  to  climb  into  the  sky!  But  they  have 
already  received  a  woful  lesson,  which  may  finally  go 
far  towards  reducing  them  to  the  level  of  the  departed 
race,  when  they  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  keeping 
the  beaten  track  of  earth.  They  now  set  forth  on  a 
ramble  through  the  city,  in  the  hope  of  making  their 
escape  from  this  uncongenial  sphere.  Already,  in 
the  fresh  elasticity  of  their  spirits,  they  have  found 
the  idea  of  weariness.  We  will  watch  them  as  they 
enter  some  of  the  shops,  and  public  or  private  edifices ; 
for  every  door,  whether  of  alderman  or  beggar,  church 
or  hall  of  state,  has  been  flung  wide  open  by  the  same 
agency  that  swept  away  the  inmates. 

It  so  happens  —  and  not  unluckily  for  an  Adam 
and  Eve  who  are  still  in  the  costume  that  might  better 
have  befitted  Eden  —  it  so  happens,  that  their  first 
visit  is  to  a  fashionable  dry-goods  store.  No  courte- 
ous and  importunate  attendants  hasten  to  receive  their 
orders  ;  no  throng  of  ladies  are  tossing  over  the  rich 
Parisian  fabrics.  All  is  deserted ;  trade  is  at  a  stand- 
still ;  and  not  even  an  echo  of  the  national  watchword  — 
"  Go  ahead  !  "  —  disturbs  the  quiet  of  the  new  customers. 
But  specimens  of  the  latest  earthly  fashions,  silks  of 
every  shade,  and  whatever  is  most  delicate  or  splendid 
for  the  decoration  of  the  human  form,  lie  scattered 
around,  profusely  as  bright  autumnal  leaves  in  a  forest. 
Adam  looks  at  a  few  of  the  articles,  but  throws  them 


THE   NEW   ADAM   AND   EVE          5 

carelessly  aside,  with  whatever  exclamation  may  cor- 
respond to  "  Pish  !  "  or  "  Pshaw  !  "  in  the  new  vocabulary 
of  nature.  Eve,  however,  —  be  it  said  without  offence 
to  her  native  modesty,  —  examines  these  treasures  of 
her  sex  with  somewhat  livelier  interest.  A  pair  of 
corsets  chance  to  lie  upon  the  counter;  she  inspects 
them  curiously,  but  knows  not  what  to  make  of  them. 
Then  she  handles  a  fashionable  silk  with  dim  yearnings 
—  thoughts  that  wander  hither  and  thither  —  instincts 
groping  in  the  dark. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  do  not  like  it,"  she  observes,  laying 
the  glossy  fabric  upon  the  counter.  "  But,  Adam,  it  is 
very  strange  !  What  can  these  things  mean  ?  Surely 
I  ought  to  know  —  yet  they  put  me  in  a  perfect  maze !  " 

"  Pooh !  my  dear  Eve,  why  trouble  thy  little  head 
about  such  nonsense  ? "  cries  Adam,  in  a  fit  of  impa- 
tience. "  Let  us  go  somewhere  else.  But  stay  !  How 
very  beautiful !  My  loveliest  Eve,  what  a  charm  you 
have  imparted  to  that  robe,  by  merely  throwing  it  over 
your  shoulders !  " 

For  Eve,  with  the  taste  that  nature  moulded  into  her 
composition,  has  taken  a  remnant  of  exquisite  silver 
gauze  and  drawn  it  around  her  form,  with  an  effect 
that  gives  Adam  his  first  idea  of  the  witchery  of  dress. 
He  beholds  his  spouse  in  a  new  light  and  with  renewed 
admiration,  yet  is  hardly  reconciled  to  any  other  attire 
than  her  own  golden  locks.  However,  emulating  Eve's 
example,  he  makes  free  with  a  mantle  of  blue  velvet, 
and  puts  it  on  so  picturesquely,  that  it  might  seem  to 
have  fallen  from  Heaven  upon  his  stately  figure.  Thus 
garbed,  they  go  in  search  of  new  discoveries. 

They  next  wander  into  a  Church,  not  to  make  a  dis- 
play of  their_fine  clothes,  but  attracted  by  its  spire,  point- 
ing upwards  to  the  sky,  whither  they  have  already 
yearned  to  climb.  As  they  enter  the  portal,  a  clock, 
which  it  was  the  last  earthly  act  of  the  sexton  to  wind 
up,  repeats  the  hour  in  deep  and  reverberating  tones; 
for  Time  has  survived  his  former  progeny,  and,  with  the 
iron  tongue  that  man  gave  him,  is  now  speaking  to  his 
two  grandchildren.  They  listen,  but  understand  him 


6       MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

^  not./  Nature  would  measure  time  by  the  succession  of 
thoughts  and  acts  which  constitute  real  life,  and  not  by 
hours  of  emptiness. /They  pass  up  the  church  aisle, 
and  raise  their  ey^s  to  the  ceiling.  Had  our  Adam 
and  Eve  become  mortal  in  some  European  city,  and 
strayed  into  the  vastness  and  sublimity  of  an  old  cathe- 
dral, they  might  have  recognized  the  purpose  for  which 
the  deep-souled  founders  reared  it.  Like  the  dim 
awfulness  of  an  ancient  forest,  its  very  atmosphere 
would  have  incited  them  to  prayer.  Within  the  snug  walls 
of  a  metropolitan  church  there  can  be  no  such  influence. 

Yet  some  odor  of  religion  is  still  lingering  here,  the 
bequest  of  pious  souls,  who  had  grace  to  enjoy  a  fore- 
taste of  immortal  life.  Perchance,  they  breathe  a 
prophecy  of  a  better  world  to  their  successors,  who 
have  become  obnoxious  to  all  their  own  cares  and  ca- 
lamities in  the  present  one. 

"Eve,  something  impels  me  to  look  upward,"  says 
Adam.  "  But  it  troubles  me  to  see  this  roof  between 
us  and  the  sky.  Let  us  go  forth,  and  perhaps  we 
shall  discern  a  Great  Face  looking  down  upon  us." 

"  Yes ;  a  Great  Face,  with  a  beam  of  love  brighten- 
ing over  it,  like  sunshine,"  responds  Eve.  "  Surely  we 
have  seen  such  a  countenance  somewhere !  " 

They  go  out  of  the  church,  and  kneeling  at  its 
threshold  give  way  to  the  spirit's  natural  instinct  of 
adoration  to  a  beneficent  Father.  But,  in  truth,  their 
life  thus  far  has  been  a  continual  prayer.  Purity  and 
simplicity  hold  converse,  at  every  moment,  with  their 
Creator. 

We  now  observe  them  entering  a  Court  of  Justice. 
But  what  remotest  conception  can  they  attain  of  the 
purposes  of  such  an  edifice  ?  How  should  the  idea 
occur  to  them,  that  human  brethren,  of  like  nature 
with  themselves,  and  originally  included  in  the  same 
law  of  love  which  is  their  only  rule  of  life,  should  ever 
need  an  outward  enforcement  of  the  true  voice  within 
their  souls  ?  And  what,  save  a  woful  experience,  the 
dark  result  of  many  centuries,  could  teach  them  the 
sad  mysteries  of  crime  ?  O  Judgment  Seat,  not  by 


THE   NEW  ADAM   AND   EVE          7 

the  pure  in  heart  wast  thou  established,  nor  in  the 
simplicity  of  nature;  but  by  hard  and  wrinkled  men, 
and  upon  the  accumulated  heap  of  earthly  wrong ! 
Thou  art  the  very  symbol  of  man's  perverted  state. 

On  as  fruitless  an  errand  our  wanderers  next  visit  a 
Hall  of  Legislature,  where  Adam  places  Eve  in  the 
Speaker's  chair,  unconscious  of  the  moral  which  he 
thus  exemplifies.  Man's  intellect,  moderated  by  Woman's 
tenderness  and  moral  sense  !  Were  such  the  legisla- 
tion of  the  world,  there  would  be  no  need  of  State 
Houses,  Capitols,  Halls  of  Parliament,  nor  even  of  those 
little  assemblages  of  patriarchs  beneath  the  shadowy 
trees,  by  whom  freedom  was  first  interpreted  to  man- 
kind on  our  native  shores. 

Whither  go  they  next  ?  A  perverse  destiny  seems  to 
perplex  them  with  one  after  another  of  the  riddles 
which  mankind  put  forth  to  the  wandering  universe 
and  left  unsolved  in  their  own  destruction.  They 
enter  an  edifice  of  stern  gray  stone,  standing  insulated 
in  the  midst  of  others,  and  gloomy  even  in  the  sunshine, 
which  it  barely  suffers  to  penetrate  through  its  iron- 
grated  windows.  It  is  a  Prison.  The  jailer  has  left 
his  post  at  the  summons  of  a  stronger  authority 
than  the  sheriff's.  But  the  prisoners  ?  Did  the  mes- 
senger of  fate,  when  he  shook  open  all  the  doors, 
respect  the  magistrate's  warrant  and  the  judge's  sen- 
tence, and  leave  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  to  be 
delivered  by  due  course  of  earthly  law?  No;  a  new 
trial  has  been  granted,  in  a  higher  court,  which  may 
set  judge,  jury,  and  prisoner  at  its  bar  all  in  a  row, 
and  perhaps  find  one  no  less  guilty  than  another. 
The  jail,  like  the  whole  earth,  is  now  a  solitude,  and 
has  thereby  lost  something  of  its  dismal  gloom.  But 
here  are  the  narrow  cells,  like  tombs,  only  drearier 
and  deadlier,  because  in  these  the  immortal  spirit  was 
buried  with  the  body.  Inscriptions  appear  on  the 
walls,  scribbled  with  a  pencil,  or  scratched  with  a  rusty 
nail ;  brief  words  of  agony,  perhaps,  or  guilt's  desperate 
defiance  to  the  world,  or  merely  a  record  of  a  date,  by 
which  the  writer  strove  to  keep  up  with  the  march  of 


8       MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

life.  There  is  not  a  living  eye  that  could  now  decipher 
these  memorials. 

Nor  is  it  while  so  fresh  from  their  Creator's  hands, 
that  the  new  denizens  of  earth  —  no,  nor  their  descend- 
ants for  a  thousand  years  —  could  discover  that  this 
edifice  was  a  hospital  for  the  direst  disease  which  could 
afflict  their  predecessors.  Its  patients  bore  the  out- 
ward marks  of  that  leprosy  with  which  all  were  more 
or  less  infected.  They  were  sick — and  so  were  the 
purest  of  their  brethren  —  with  the  plague  of  sin. 

A  deadly  sickness,  indeed !  Feeling  its  symptoms 
within  the  breast,  men  concealed  it  with  fear  and 
shame,  and  were  only  the  more  cruel  to  those  unfor- 
tunates, whose  pestiferous  sores  were  flagrant  to  the 
common  eye.  Nothing,  save  a  rich  garment,  could 
ever  hide  the  plague-spot.  In  the  course  of  the  world's 
lifetime,  every  remedy  was  tried  for  its  cure  and  extir- 
pation, except  the  single  one,  the  flower  that  grew  in 
Heaven,  and  was  sovereign  for  all  the  miseries  of  earth. 
Man  never  had  attempted  to  cure  sin  by  LOVE  !  Had 
he  but  once  made  the  effort,  it  might  well  have  happened, 
that  there  would  have  been  no  more  need  of  the  dark 
lazar-house  into  which  Adam  and  Eve  had  wandered. 
Hasten  forth,  with  your  native  innocence,  lest  the 
damps  of  these  still  conscious  walls  infect  you  likewise, 
and  thus  another  fallen  race  be  propagated ! 

Passing  from  the  interior  of  the  prison  into  the  space 
within  its  outward  wall,  Adam  pauses  beneath  a  struc- 
ture of  the  simplest  contrivance,  yet  altogether  un- 
accountable to  him.  It  consists  merely  of  two  upright 
posts,  supporting  a  transverse  beam,  from  which  dangles 
a  cord. 

"  Eve,  Eve ! "  cries  Adam,  shuddering  with  a  name- 
less horror.  "  What  can  this  thing  be  ?  " 

"I  know  not,"  answers  Eve;  "but,  Adam,  my  heart 
is  sick !  There  seems  to  be  no  more  sky !  —  no  more 
sunshine ! " 

Well  might  Adam  shudder,  and  poor  Eve  be  sick  at 
heart ;  for  this  mysterious  object  was  the  type  of  man- 
kind's whole  system,  in  regard  to  the  great  difficulties 


THE   NEW   ADAM   AND    EVE          9 

which  God  had  given  to  be  solved  —  a  system  of  fear 
and  vengeance,  never  successful,  yet  followed  to  the 
last.  Here,  on  the  morning  when  the  final  summons 
came,  a  criminal  —  one  criminal,  where  none  were  guilt- 
less —  had  died  upon  the  gallows.  Had  the  world  heard 
the  footfall  of  its  own  approaching  doom,  it  would  have 
been  no  inappropriate  act,  thus  to  close  the  record  of  its 
deeds  by  one  so  characteristic. 

The  two  pilgrims  now  hurry  from  the  prison.  Had 
they  known  how  the  former  inhabitants  of  earth  were 
shut  up  in  artificial  error,  and  cramped  and  chained  by 
their  perversions,  they  might  have  compared  the  whole 
moral  world  to  a  prison-house,  and  have  deemed  the 
removal  of  the  race  a  general  jail-delivery. 

They  next  enter,  unannounced  —  but  they  might  have 
rung  at  the  door  in  vain  —  a  private  mansion,  one  of  the 
stateliest  in  Beacon  street.  A  wild  and  plaintive  strain 
of  music  is  quivering  through  the  house,  now  rising  like 
a  solemn  organ  peal,  and  now  dying  into  the  faintest 
murmur ;  as  if  some  spirit,  that  had  felt  an  interest  in 
the  departed  family,  were  bemoaning  itself  in  the  soli- 
tude of  hall  and  chamber.  Perhaps,  a  virgin,  the  purest 
of  mortal  race,  has  been  left  behind,  to  perform  a  requiem 
for  the  whole  kindred  of  humanity  ?  Not  so  !  These 
are  the  tones  of  an  v^Eolian  harp,  through  which  Nature 
pours  the  harmony  that  lies  concealed  in  her  every 
breath,  whether  of  summer  breeze  or  tempest.  Adam 
and  Eve  are  lost  in  rapture,  unmingled  with  surprise. 
The  passing  wind,  that  stirred  the  harp-strings,  has 
been  hushed,  before  they  can  think  of  examining  the 
splendid  furniture,  the  gorgeous  carpets,  and  the 
architecture  of  the  rooms.  These  things  amuse  their 
unpractised  eyes,  but  appeal  to  nothing  within  their 
hearts.  Even  the  pictures  upon  the  walls  scarcely 
excite  a  deeper  interest ;  for  there  is  something  radi- 
cally artificial  and  deceptive  in  painting,  with  which 
minds  in  the  primal  simplicity  cannot  sympathize.  The 
unbidden  guests  examine  a  row  of  family  portraits,  but 
are  too  dull  to  recognize  them  as  men  and  women, 
beneath  the  disguise  of  a  preposterous  garb,  and  with 


10     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD   MANSE 

features  and  expression  debased,  because  inherited 
through  ages  of  moral  and  physical  decay. 

Chance,  however,  presents  them  with  pictures  of 
human  beauty,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  Nature.  As 
they  enter  a  magnificent  apartment,  they  are  astonished, 
but  not  affrighted,  to  perceive  two  figures  advancing  to 
meet  them.  Is  it  not  awful  to  imagine  that  any  life, 
save  their  own,  should  remain  in  the  wide  world? 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  exclaims  Adam.  "  My  beautiful 
Eve,  are  you  in  two  places  at  once  ? " 

"  And  you,  Adam ! "  answers  Eve,  doubtful,  yet 
delighted.  "  Surely  that  noble  and  lovely  form  is 
yours.  Yet  here  you  are  by  my  side !  I  am  content 
with  one  —  methmks  there  should  not  be  two !  " 

This  miracle  is  wrought  by  a  tall  looking-glass,  the 
mystery  of  which  they  soon  fathom,  because  Nature 
creates  a  mirror  for  the  human  face  in  every  pool  of 
water,  and  for  her  own  great  features  in  waveless  lakes. 
Pleased  and  satisfied  with  gazing  at  themselves,  they 
now  discover  the  marble  statue  of  a  child  in  a  corner  of 
the  room,  so  exquisitely  idealized,  that  it  is  almost  worthy 
to  be  the  prophetic  likeness  of  their  first-born.  Sculp- 
ture, in  its  highest  excellence,  is  more  genuine  than 
painting,  and  might  seem  to  be  evolved  from  a  natural 
germ,  by  the  same  law  as  a  leaf  or  flower.  The  statue 
of  the  child  impresses  the  solitary  pair  as  if  it  were  a 
companion ;  it  likewise  hints  at  secrets  both  of  the  past 
and  future. 

"  My  husband !  "  whispers  Eve. 

"  What  would  you  say,  dearest  Eve  ? "  inquires 
Adam. 

"  I  wonder  if  we  are  alone  in  the  world,"  she  con- 
tinues, with  a  sense  of  something  like  fear  at  the 
thought  of  other  inhabitants.  "  This  lovely  little  form  ! 
Did  it  ever  breathe  ?  Or  is  it  only  the  shadow  of  some- 
thing real,  like  our  pictures  in  the  mirror  ? " 

"  It  is  strange  !  "  replies  Adam,  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  brow.  "There  are  mysteries  all  around  us.  An 
idea  flits  continually  before  me  —  would  that  I  could 
seize  it !  Eve,  Eve,  are  we  treading  in  the  footsteps  of 


THE   NEW   ADAM   AND    EVE        n 

beings  that  bore  a  likeness  to  ourselves  ?  If  so,  whither 
are  they  gone  ?  —  and  why  is  their  world  so  unfit  for 
our  dwelling-place  ? " 

"  Our  great  Father  only  knows,"  answers  Eve.  "  But 
something  tells  me  that  we  shall  not  always  be  alone. 
And  how  sweet  if  other  beings  were  to  visit  us  in  the 
shape  of  this  fair  image !  " 

Then  they  wander  through  the  house,  and  everywhere 
find  tokens  of  human  life,  which  now,  with  the  idea 
recently  suggested,  excite  a  deeper  curiosity  in  their 
bosoms.  Woman  has  here  left  traces  of  her  delicacy 
and  refinement,  and  of  her  gentle  labors.  Eve  ran- 
sacks a  work-basket,  and  instinctively  thrusts  the  rosy 
tip  of  her  finger  into  a  thimble.  She  takes  up  a  piece 
of  embroidery,  glowing  with  mimic  flowers,  in  one  of 
which  a  fair  damsel  of  the  departed  race  has  left  her 
needle.  Pity  that  the  Day  of  Doom  should  have  antici- 
pated the  completion  of  such  a  useful  task  !  Eve  feels 
almost  conscious  of  the  skill  to  finish  it.  A  piano-forte 
has  been  left  open.  She  flings  her  hand  carelessly  over 
the  keys,  and  strikes  out  a  sudden  melody,  no  less 
natural  than  the  strains  of  the  yEolian  harp,  but  joyous 
with  the  dance  of  her  yet  unburthened  life.  Passing 
through  a  dark  entry,  they  find  a  broom  behind  the 
door;  and  Eve,  who  comprises  the  whole  nature  of 
womanhood,  has  a  dim  idea  that  it  is  an  instrument 
proper  for  her  hand.  In  another  apartment  they  be- 
hold a  canopied  bed,  and  all  the  appliances  of  luxurious 
repose.  A  heap  of  forest  leaves  would  be  more  to  the 
purpose.  They  enter  the  nursery,  and  are  perplexed 
with  the  sight  of  little  gowns  and  caps,  tiny  shoes,  and 
a  cradle ;  amid  the  drapery  of  which  is  still  to  be  seen 
the  impress  of  a  baby's  form.  Adam  slightly  notices 
these  trifles,  but  Eve  becomes  involved  in  a  fit  of  mute 
reflection  from  which  it  is  hardly  possible  to  rouse 
her. 

By  a  most  unlucky  arrangement,  there  was  to  have 
been  a  grand  dinner-party  in  this  mansion  on  the  very 
day  when  the  whole  human  family,  including  the  in- 
vited guests,  were  summoned  to  the  unknown  regions 


12     MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD   MANSE 

of  illimitable  space.  At  the  moment  of  fate,  the  table 
was  actually  spread,  and  the  company  on  the  point  of 
sitting  down.  Adam  and  Eve  came  unbidden  to  the 
banquet ;  it  has  now  been  some  time  cold,  but  otherwise 
furnishes  them  with  highly  favorable  specimens  of  the 
gastronomy  of  their  predecessors.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  the  perplexity  of  the  unperverted  couple,  in 
endeavoring  to  find  proper  food  for  their  first  meal, 
at  a  table  where  the  cultivated  appetites  of  a  fashion- 
able party  were  to  have  been  gratified.  Will  Nature 
teach  them  the  mystery  of  a  plate  of  turtle  soup  ?  Will 
she  embolden  them  to  attack  a  haunch  of  venison  ?  Will 
she  initiate  them  into  the  merits  of  a  Parisian  pasty,  im- 
ported by  the  last  steamer  that  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic  ? 
Will  she  not,  rather,  bid  them  turn  with  disgust  from 
fish,  fowl,  and  flesh,  which,  to  their  pure  nostrils,  steam 
with  a  loathsome  odor  of  death  and  corruption  ?  — 
Food  ?  The  bill  of  fare  contains  nothing  which  they 
recognize  as  such. 

Fortunately,  however,  the  dessert  is  ready  upon  a 
neighboring  table.  Adam,  whose  appetite  and  animal 
instincts  are  quicker  than  those  of  Eve,  discovers  this 
fitting  banquet. 

"  Here,  dearest  Eve,"  he  exclaims,  "  here  is  food." 

"Well,"  answers  she,  with  the  germ  of  a  housewife 
stirring  within  her,  "  we  have  been  so  busy  to-day,  that 
a  picked-up  dinner  must  serve." 

So  Eve  comes  to  the  table,  and  receives  a  red-cheeked 
apple  from  her  husband's  hand,  in  requital  of  her  prede- 
cessor's fatal  gift  to  our  common  grandfather.  She  eats 
it  without  sin,  and,  let  us  hope,  with  no  disastrous  con- 
sequences to  her  future  progeny.  They  make  a  plenti- 
ful, yet  temperate,  meal  of  fruit,  which,  though  not 
gathered  in  Paradise,  is  legitimately  derived  from  the 
seeds  that  were  planted  there.  Their  primal  appetite 
is  satisfied. 

"  What  shall  we  drink,  Eve  ?  "  inquires  Adam. 

Eve  peeps  among  some  bottles  and  decanters,  which, 
as  they  contain  fluids,  she  naturally  conceives  must  be 
proper  to  quench  thirst.  But  never  before  did  claret, 


THE    NEW   ADAM    AND    EVE         13 

hock,  and  madeira,  of  rich  and  rare  perfume,  excite 
such  disgust  as  now. 

"  Pah  !  "  she  exclaims,  after  smelling  at  various  wines. 
"  What  stuff  is  here  ?  The  beings  who  have  gone  be- 
fore us  could  not  have  possessed  the  same  nature  that 
we  do ;  for  neither  their  hunger  nor  thirst  were  like  our 
own !  " 

"  Pray  hand  me  yonder  bottle,"  says  Adam.  "  If  it 
be  drinkable  by  any  manner  of  mortal,  I  must  moisten 
my  throat  with  it." 

After  some  remonstrances,  she  takes  up  a  cham- 
pagne bottle,  but  is  frightened  by  the  sudden  explosion 
of  the  cork,  and  drops  it  upon  the  floor.  There  the  un- 
tasted  liquor  effervesces.  Had  they  quaffed  it,  they 
would  have  experienced  that  brief  delirium,  whereby, 
whether  excited  by  moral  or  physical  causes,  man 
sought  to  recompense  himself  for  the  calm,  life-long 
joys  which  he  had  lost  by  his  revolt  from  nature.  At 
length,  in  a  refrigerator,  Eve  finds  a  glass  pitcher  of 
water,  pure,  cold,  and  bright,  as  ever  gushed  from  a 
fountain  among  the  hills.  Both  drink ;  and  such  re- 
freshment does  it  bestow,  that  they  question  one  another 
if  this  precious  liquid  be  not  identical  with  the  stream 
of  life  within  them. 

"And  now,"  observes  Adam,  "we  must  again  try  to 
discover  what  sort  of  a  world  this  is,  and  why  we  have 
been  sent  hither." 

"  Why  ?  —  To  love  one  another !  "  cries  Eve.  "  Is  not 
that  employment  enough  ? " 

"Truly  is  it,"  answers  Adam,  kissing  her;  "but  still 
—  I  know  not  —  something  tells  us  there  is  labor  to  be 
done.  Perhaps  our  alloted  task  is  no  other  than  to 
climb  into  the  sky,  which  is  so  much  more  beautiful 
than  earth." 

"  Then  would  we  were  there  now,"  murmurs  Eve, 
"  that  no  task  or  duty  might  come  between  us !  " 

They  leave  the  hospitable  mansion ;  and  we  next  see 
them  passing  down  State  street.  The  clock  on  the  old 
State  House  points  to  high  noon,  when  the  Exchange 
should  be  in  its  glory,  and  present  the  liveliest  emblem 


i4     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

of  what  was  the  sole  business  of  life,  as  regarded  a 
multitude  of  the  foregone  worldlings.  It  is  over  now. 
The  Sabbath  of  eternity  has  shed  its  stillness  along  the 
street.  Not  even  a  news-boy  assails  the  two  solitary 
passers-by,  with  an  extra  penny  paper  from  the  office  of 
the  Times  or  Mail,  containing  a  full  account  of  yester- 
day's terrible  catastrophe.  Of  all  the  dull  times  that 
merchants  and  speculators  have  known,  this  is  the  very 
worst ;  for,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  creation  it- 
self has  taken  the  benefit  of  the  bankrupt-act.  After 
all,  it  is  a  pity.  Those  mighty  capitalists,  who  had  just 
attained  the  wished-for  wealth  !  Those  shrewd  men  of 
traffic,  who  had  devoted  so  many  years  to  the  most  in- 
tricate and  artificial  sciences,  and  had  barely  mastered 
it,  when  the  universal  bankruptcy  was  announced  by 
peal  of  trumpet !  Can  they  have  been  so  incautious  as 
to  provide  no  currency  of  the  country  whither  they  have 
gone,  nor  any  bills  of  exchange,  or  letters  of  credit, 
from  the  needy  on  earth  to  the  cash-keepers  of 
Heaven  ? 

Adam  and  Eve  enter  a  Bank.  Start  not,  ye  whose 
funds  are  treasured  there !  You  will  never  need  them 
now.  Call  not  for  the  police!  The  stones  of  the 
street  and  the  coin  of  the  vaults  are  of  equal  value  to 
this  simple  pair.  Strange  sight!  They  take  up  the 
bright  gold  in  handfuls,  and  throw  it  sportively  into 
the  air,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  glittering  worth- 
lessness  descend  again  in  a  shower.  They  know  not 
that  each  of  those  small  yellow  circles  was  once  a 
magic  spell,  potent  to  sway  men's  hearts,  and  mystify 
their  moral  sense.  Here  let  them  pause  in  the  in- 
vestigation of  the  past.  They  have  discovered  the 
mainspring,  the  life,  the  very  essence,  of  the  system 
that  had  wrought  itself  into  the  vitals  of  mankind, 
and  choked  their  original  nature  in  its  deadly  gripe. 
Yet  how  powerless  over  these  young  inheritors  of 
earth's  hoarded  wealth !  And  here,  too,  are  huge 
packages  of  bank-notes,  those  talismanic  slips  of 
paper,  which  once  had  the  efficacy  to  build  up  en- 
chanted palaces,  like  exhalations,  and  work  all  kinds 


THE    NEW   ADAM    AND    EVE        15 

of  perilous  wonders,  yet  were  themselves  but  the  ghosts 
of  money,  the  shadows  of  a  shade.  How  like  is  this 
vault  to  a  magician's  cave,  when  the  all-powerful  wand 
is  broken,  and  the  visionary  splendor  vanished,  and  the 
floor  strewn  with  fragments  of  shattered  spells,  and 
lifeless  shapes  once  animated  by  demons  ! 

"  Everywhere,  my  dear  Eve,"  observes  Adam,  "  we 
find  heaps  of  rubbish  of  one  kind  or  another.  Some- 
body, I  am  convinced,  has  taken  pains  to  collect  them 
—  but  for  what  purpose  ?  Perhaps,  hereafter,  we  shall 
be  moved  to  do  the  like.  Can  that  be  our  business  in 
the  world  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Adam !  "  answers  Eve.  "  It  would  be 
better  to  sit  down  quietly  and  look  upward  to  the 
sky." 

They  leave  the  Bank,  and  in  good  time ;  for  had  they 
tarried  later,  they  would  probably  have  encountered 
some  gouty  old  goblin  of  a  capitalist,  whose  soul  could 
not  long  be  anywhere,  save  in  the  vault  with  his 
treasure. 

Next,  they  drop  into  a  jeweller's  shop.  They  are 
pleased  with  the  glow  of  gems  ;  and  Adam  twines  a 
string  of  beautiful  pearls  around  the  head  of  Eve,  and 
fastens  his  own  mantle  with  a  magnificent  diamond 
brooch.  Eve  thanks  him  and  views  herself  with 
delight  in  the  nearest  looking-glass.  Shortly  after- 
ward, observing  a  bouquet  of  roses  and  other  brilliant 
flowers  in  a  vase  of  water,  she  flings  away  the  inesti- 
mable pearls,  and  adorns  herself  with  these  lovelier 
gems  of  nature.  They  charm  her  with  sentiment  as 
well  as  beauty. 

"  Surely  they  are  living  beings,"  she  remarks  to 
Adam. 

"  I  think  so,"  replies  Adam,  "  and  they  seem  to  be  as 
little  at  home  in  the  world  as  ourselves." 

We  must  not  attempt  to  follow  every  footstep  of 
these  investigators  whom  their  Creator  has  commis- 
sioned to  pass  unconscious  judgment  upon  the  works 
and  ways  of  the  vanished  race.  By  this  time,  being 
endowed  with  quick  and  accurate  perceptions,  they 


16     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

begin  to  understand  the  purpose  of  the  many  things 
around  them.  They  conjecture,  for  instance,  that  the 
edifices  of  the  city  were  erected,  not  by  the  immediate 
hand  that  made  the  world,  but  by  beings  somewhat 
similar  to  themselves,  for  shelter  and  convenience. 
But  how  will  they  explain  the  magnificence  of  one 
habitation,  as  compared  with  the  squalid  misery  of 
another?  Through  what  medium  can  the  idea  of 
servitude  enter  their  minds  ?  When  will  they  compre- 
hend the  great  and  miserable  fact,  —  the  evidences 
of  which  appeal  to  their  senses  everywhere,  —  that 
one  portion  of  earth's  lost  inhabitants  was  rolling  in 
luxury,  while  the  multitude  was  toiling  for  scanty  food  ? 
A  wretched  change,  indeed,  must  be  wrought  in  their 
own  hearts,  ere  they  can  conceive  the  primal  decree  of 
Love  to  have  been  so  completely  abrogated,  that  a 
brother  should  ever  want  what  his  brother  had.  When 
their  intelligence  shall  have  reached  so  far,  Earth's 
new  progeny  will  have  little  reason  to  exult  over  her 
old  rejected  one. 

Their  wanderings  have  now  brought  them  into  the 
suburbs  of  the  city.  They  stand  on  a  grassy  brow  of 
a  hill  at  the  foot  of  a  granite  obelisk,  which  points 
its  great  finger  upwards,  as  if  the  human  family  had 
agreed,  by  a  visible  symbol  of  age-long  endurance,  to 
offer  some  high  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  or  supplication. 
The  solemn  height  of  the  monument,  its  deep  simplicity, 
and  the  absence  of  any  vulgar  and  practical  use,  all 
strengthen  its  effect  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  and  lead 
them  to  interpret  it  by  a  purer  sentiment  than  the 
builders  thought  of  expressing. 

"  Eve,  it  is  a  visible  prayer,"  observed  Adam. 

"  And  we  will  pray,  too,"  she  replies. 

Let  us  pardon  these  poor  children  of  neither  father 
nor  mother,  for  so  absurdly  mistaking  the  purport  of 
the  memorial,  which  man  founded  and  woman  finished, 
on  far-famed  Bunker  Hill.  The  idea  of  war  is  not 
native  to  their  souls.  Nor  have  they  sympathies  for 
the  brave  defenders  of  liberty,  since  oppression  is  one 
of  their  unconjectural  mysteries.  Could  they  guess  that 


THE   NEW   ADAM   AND   EVE        17 

the  green  sward  on  which  they  stand  so  peacefully, 
was  once  strewn  with  human  corpses  and  purple  with 
their  blood,  it  would  equally  amaze  them,  that  one  gen- 
eration of  men  should  perpetrate  such  carnage,  and 
that  a  subsequent  generation  should  triumphantly  com- 
memorate it. 

With  a  sense  of  delight,  they  now  stroll  across  green 
fields  and  along  the  margin  of  a  quiet  river.  Not  to 
track  them  too  closely,  we  next  find  the  wanderers 
entering  a  Gothic  edifice  of  gray  stone,  where  the  by- 
gone world  has  left  whatever  it  deemed  worthy  of 
record,  in  the  rich  library  of  Harvard  University. 

No  student  ever  yet  enjoyed  such  solitude  and  silence 
as  now  broods  within  its  deep  alcoves.  Little  do  the 
present  visitors  understand  what  opportunities  are 
thrown  away  upon  them.  Yet  Adam  looks  anxiously 
at  the  long  rows  of  volumes,  those  storied  heights  of 
human  lore,  ascending  one  above  another  from  floor  to 
ceiling.  He  takes  up  a  bulky  folio.  It  opens  in  his 
hands,  as  if  spontaneously  to  impart  the  spirit  of  its 
author  to  the  yet  unworn  and  untainted  intellect  of  the 
fresh-created  mortal.  He  stands  poring  over  the  regu- 
lar columns  of  mystic  characters,  seemingly  in  studious 
mood  ;  for  the  unintelligible  thought  upon  the  page  has 
a  mysterious  relation  to  his  mind,  and  makes  itself  felt, 
as  it  were  a  burthen  flung  upon  him.  He  is  even 
painfully  perplexed,  and  grasps  vainly  at  he  knows  not 
what.  Oh,  Adam,  it  is  too  soon,  too  soon  by  at  least 
five  thousand  years,  to  put  on  spectacles,  and  busy 
yourself  in  the  alcoves  of  a  library! 

"  What  can  this  be  ? "  he  murmurs  at  last.  "  Eve, 
methinks  nothing  is  so  desirable  as  to  find  out  the  mys- 
tery of  this  big  and  heavy  object  with  its  thousand  thin 
divisions.  See !  it  stares  me  in  the  face,  as  if  it  were 
about  to  speak  !  " 

Eve,  by  a  feminine  instinct,  is  dipping  into  a  volume 
of  fashionable  poetry,  the  production  of  certainly  the 
most  fortunate  of  earthly  bards,  since  his  lay  continues 
in  vogue  when  all  the  great  masters  of  the  lyre  have 
passed  into  oblivion.  But  let  not  his  ghost  be  too  ex- 


18     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

ultant !  The  world's  one  lady  tosses  the  book  upon  the 
floor,  and  laughs  merrily  at  her  husband's  abstracted 
mien. 

"My  dear  Adam,"  cries  she,  "you  look  pensive  and 
dismal !  Do  fling  down  that  stupid  thing ;  for  even  if  it 
should  speak,  it  would  not  be  worth  attending  to.  Let 
us  talk  with  one  another,  and  with  the  sky,  and  the  green 
earth,  and  its  trees  and  flowers.  They  will  teach  us  better 
knowledge  than  we  can  find  here." 

"  Well,  Eve,  perhaps  you  are  right,"  replies  Adam, 
with  a  sort  of  sigh.  "  Still,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
the  interpretation  of  the  riddles  amid  which  we  have 
been  wandering  all  day  long  might  here  be  discovered." 

"  It  may  be  better  not  to  seek  the  interpretation," 
persists  Eve.  "  For  my  part,  the  air  of  this  place  does 
not  suit  me.  If  you  love  me,  come  away  !  " 

She  prevails,  and  rescues  him  from  the  mysterious 
perils  of  the  library.  Happy  influence  of  woman  !  Had 
he  lingered  there  long  enough  to  obtain  a  clew  to  its 
treasures,  —  as  was  not  impossible,  his  intellect  being  of 
human  structure,  indeed,  but  with  an  untransmitted 
vigor  and  acuteness,  —  had  he  then  and  there  become  a 
student,  the  annalist  of  our  poor  world  would  soon  have 
recorded  the  downfall  of  a  second  Adam.  The  fatal 
apple  of  another  Tree  of  Knowledge  would  have  been 
eaten.  All  the  perversions  and  sophistries,  and  false 
wisdom  so  aptly  mimicking  the  true;  all  the  narrow  truth, 
so  partial  that  it  becomes  more  deceptive  than  falsehood  ; 
all  the  wrong  principles  and  worse  practice,  the  perni- 
cious examples  and  mistaken  rules  of  life ;  all  the  spe- 
cious theories,  which  turn  earth  into  cloud-land,  and 
men  into  shadows ;  all  the  sad  experience,  which  it  took 
mankind  so  many  ages  to  accumulate,  and  from  which 
they  never  drew  a  moral  for  their  future  guidance  — 
the  whole  heap  of  this  disastrous  lore  would  have  tum- 
bled at  once  upon  Adam's  head.  There  would  have 
been  nothing  left  for  him,  but  to  take  up  the  already 
abortive  experiment  of  life,  where  we  had  dropped  it, 
and  toil  onward  with  it  a  little  further. 

But,  blessed  in  his  ignorance,  he  may  still  enjoy  a  new 


THE    NEW   ADAM    AND    EVE        19 

world  in  our  worn-out  one.  Should  he  fall  short  of  good, 
even  as  far  as  we  did,  he  has  at  least  the  freedom  —  no 
worthless  one  —  to  make  errors  for  himself.  And  his 
literature,  when  the  progress  of  centuries  shall  create  it, 
will  be  no  interminably  repeated  echo  of  our  own  poetry, 
and  reproduction  of  the  images  that  were  moulded  by 
our  great  fathers  of  song  and  fiction,  but  a  melody  never 
yet  heard  on  earth,  and  intellectual  forms  unbreathed 
upon  by  our  conceptions.  Therefore  let  the  dust  of  ages 
gather  upon  the  volumes  of  the  library,  and,  in  due  season, 
the  roof  of  the  edifice  crumble  down  upon  the  whole. 
When  the  second  Adam's  descendants  shall  have  col- 
lected as  much  rubbish  of  their  own,  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  dig  into  our  ruins,  and  compare  the  literary 
advancement  of  two  independent  races. 

But  we  are  looking  forward  too  far.  It  seems  to  be 
the  vice  of  those  who  have  a  long  past  behind  them. 
We  will  return  to  the  new  Adam  and  Eve,  who,  hav- 
ing no  reminiscences,  save  dim  and  fleeting  visions  of  a 
pre-existence,  are  content  to  live  and  be  happy  in  the 
present. 

The  day  is  near  its  close,  when  these  pilgrims,  who 
derive  their  being  from  no  dead  progenitors,  reach  the 
cemetery  of  Mount  Auburn.  With  light  hearts — for 
earth  and  sky  now  gladden  each  other  with  beauty  — 
they  tread  along  the  winding  paths,  among  marble  pillars, 
mimic  temples,  urns,  obelisks,  and  sarcophagi,  sometimes 
pausing  to  contemplate  these  fantasies  of  human  growth, 
and  sometimes  to  admire  the  flowers  wherewith  kind 
Nature  converts  decay  to  loveliness.  Can  Death,  in  the 
midst  of  his  old  triumphs,  make  them  sensible  that  they 
have  taken  up  the  heavy  burden  of  mortality,  which  a 
whole  species  had  thrown  down  ?  Dust  kindred  to  their 
own  has  never  lain  in  the  grave.  Will  they  then  recog- 
nize, and  so  soon,  that  Time  and  the  elements  have  an 
indefeasible  claim  upon  their  bodies  ?  Not  improbably, 
they  may.  There  must  have  been  shadpws  enough,  even 
amid  the  primal  sunshine  of  their  existence,  to  suggest 
the  thought  of  the  soul's  incongruity  with  its  circum- 
stances. They  have  already  learned  that  something  is 


20     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

to  be  thrown  aside.  The  idea  of  Death  is  in  them,  or 
not  far  off.  But  were  they  to  choose  a  symbol  for  him, 
it  would  be  the  Butterfly  soaring  upward,  or  the  bright 
Angel  beckoning  them  aloft,  or  the  Child  asleep,  with 
soft  dreams  visible  through  her  transparent  purity. 

Such  a  Child,  in  whitest  marble,  they  have  found 
among  the  monuments  of  Mount  Auburn. 

"  Sweetest  Eve,"  observes  Adam,  while  hand  in  hand 
they  contemplate  this  beautiful  object,  "yonder  sun  has 
left  us,  and  the  whole  world  is  fading  from  our  sight. 
Let  us  sleep,  as  this  lovely  little  figure  is  sleeping.  Our 
Father  only  knows,  whether  what  outward  things  we 
have  possessed  to-day  are  to  be  snatched  from  us  for- 
ever. But  should  our  earthly  life  be  leaving  us  with  the 
departing  light,  we  need  not  doubt  that  another  morn 
will  find  us  somewhere  beneath  the  smile  of  God.  I  feel 
that  he  has  imparted  the  boon  of  existence,  never  to  be 
resumed." 

"  And  no  matter  where  we  exist,"  replies  Eve,  "  for 
we  shall  always  be  together." 


EGOTISM;1  OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT 

FROM    THE   UNPUBLISHED    "ALLEGORIES  OF   THE  HEART" 

"  TTERE  he    comes  ! "  shouted  the  boys   along  the 

JL  J.  street.  "  Here  comes  the  man  with  a  snake  in 
his  bosom ! " 

This  outcry,  saluting  Herkimer's  ears,  as  he  was  about 
to  enter  the  iron  gate  of  the  Elliston  mansion,  made  him 
pause.  It  was  not  without  a  shudder  that  he  found 
himself  on  the  point  of  meeting  his  former  acquaintance, 
whom  he  had  known  in  the  glory  of  youth,  and  whom 
now,  after  an  interval  of  five  years,  he  was  to  find  the 
victim  either  of  a  diseased  fancy,  or  a  horrible  physical 
misfortune. 

"  A  snake  in  his  bosom  !  "  repeated  the  young  sculptor 
to  himself.  "  It  must  be  he.  No  second  man  on  earth 
has  such  a  bosom  friend !  And  now,  my  poor  Rosina, 
Heaven  grant  me  wisdom  to  discharge  my  errand  aright ! 
Woman's  faith  must  be  strong  indeed,  since  thine  has 
not  yet  failed." 

Thus  musing,  he  took  his  stand  at  the  entrance  of  the 
gate,  and  waited  until  the  personage,  so  singularly  an- 
nounced, should  make  his  appearance.  After  an  instant 
or  two,  he  beheld  the  figure  of  a  lean  man,  of  unwhole- 
some look,  with  glittering  eyes  and  long  black  hair,  who 
seemed  to  imitate  the  motion  of  a  snake  ;  for,  instead  of 
walking  straight  forward  with  open  front,  he  undulated 
along  the  pavement  in  a  curved  line.  (It  may  be  too 
fanciful  to  say,  that  something,  either  in  his  mpraLor 
material  aspect,  suggested  the  idea  that  a  miracle  had 
been  wrought,  by  transforming  a  serpent  into  a  man  ; 
but  so  imperfectly,  that  the  snaky  nature  was  yet  hidden, 

1  The  physical  fact,  to  which  it  is  here  attempted  to  give  a  moral  signi- 
fication, has  been  known  to  occur  in  more  than  one  instance. 
21 


22     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

and  scarcely  hidden,  under  the  mere  outward  guise  of 
humanity.  Herkimer  remarked  that  his  complexion 
had  a  greenish  tinge  over  its  sickly  white,  reminding 
him  of  a  species  of  marble  out  of  which  he  had  once 
wrought  a  head  of  Envy,  with  her  snaky  locks. 

The  wretched  being  approached  the  gate,  but,  instead 
of  entering,  stopt  short,  and  fixed  the  glitter  of  his  eye 
full  upon  the  compassionate,  yet  steady  countenance  of 
the  sculptor. 

"  It  gnaws  me  !     It  gnaws  me  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  then  there  was  an  audible  hiss,  but  whether  it 
came  from  the  apparent  lunatic's  own  lips  or  was  the 
real  hiss  of  a  serpent  might  admit  of  discussion.  At  all 
events,  it  made  Herkimer  shudder  to  his  heart's  core. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  George  Herkimer  ?  "  asked  the 
snake-possessed. 

Herkimer  did  know  him.  But  it  demanded  all  the 
intimate  and  practical  acquaintance  with  the  human  face, 
acquired  by  modelling  actual  likenesses  in  clay,  to  recog- 
nize the  features  of  Roderick  Elliston  in  the  visage  that 
now  met  the  sculptor's  gaze.  Yet  it  was  he.  It  added 
nothing  to  the  wonder,  to  reflect  that  the  once  brilliant 
young  man  had  undergone  this  odious  and  fearful  change, 
during  the  no  more  than  five  brief  years  of  Herkimer's 
abode  at  Florence.  The  possibility  of  such  a  transforma- 
tion being  granted,  it  was  as  easy  to  conceive  it  affected 
in  a  moment  as  in  an  age.  Inexpressibly  shocked  and 
startled,  it  was  still  the  keenest  pang,  when  Herkimer 
remembered  that  the  fate  of  his  cousin  Rosina,  the  ideal 
of  gentle  womanhood,  was  indissolubly  interwoven  with 
that  of  a  being  whom  Providence  seemed  to  have  unhti- 
manized. 

"  Elliston  !  Roderick  !  "  cried  he,  "  I  had  heard  of 
this ;  but  my  conception  came  far  short  of  the  truth. 
What  has  befallen  you  ?  Why  do  I  find  you  thus  ?  " 

"Oh,  'tis  a  mere  nothing!  A  snake!  A  snake! 
The  commonest  thing  in  the  world.  A  snake  in  the 
bosom  —  that 's  all,"  answered  Roderick  Elliston.  "  But 
how  is  your  own  breast  ? "  continued  he,  looking  the 
sculptor  in  the  eye,  with  the  most  acute  and  penetrating 


EGOTISM  23 

glance  that  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to  encounter. 
"  All  pure  and  wholesome  ?  No  reptile  there  ?  By  my 
faith  and  conscience,  and  by  the  devil  within  me,  here  is 
a  wonder  !  A  man  without  a  serpent  in  his  bosom  !  "x 

"  Be  calm,  Elliston,"  whispered  George  Herkimer, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  snake-possessed. 
"  I  have  crossed  the  ocean  to  meet  you.  Listen  !  —  let 
us  be  private  —  I  bring  a  message  from  Rosina  —  from 
your  wife  !  " 

"  It  gnaws  me  !     It  gnaws  me  !  "  muttered  Roderick. 

With  this  exclamation,  the  most  frequent  in  his  mouth, 
the  unfortunate  man  clutched  both  hands  upon  .his 
breast,  as  if  an  intolerable  sting  or  torture  impelled  him 
to  rend  it  open,  and  let  out  the  living  mischief,  even 
where  it  intertwined  with  his  own  life.  He  then  freed 
himself  from  Herkimer's  grasp,  by  a  subtle  motion,  and, 
gliding  through  the  gate,  took  refuge  in  his  antiquated 
family  residence.  The  sculptor  did  not  pursue  him. 
He  saw  that  no  available  intercourse  could  be  expected 
at  such  a  moment,  and  was  desirous,  before  another 
meeting,  to  inquire  closely  into  the  nature  of  Roderick's 
disease,  and  the  circumstances  that  had  reduced  him  to 
so  lamentable  a  condition.  He  succeeded  in  obtaining 
the  necessary  information  from  an  eminent  medical 
gentleman. 

Shortly  after  Elliston's  separation  from  his  wife  — 
now  nearly  four  years  ago  —  his  associates  had  observed 
a  singular  gloom  spreading  over  his  daily  life,  like  those 
chill,  gray  mists  that  sometimes  steal  away  the  sunshine 
from  a  summer's  morning.  The  symptoms  caused  them 
endless  perplexity.  They  knew  not  whether  ill  health  A 
were  robbing  his  spirits  of  elasticity ;  or  whether  a 
canker  of  the  mind  was  gradually  eating,  as  such 
cankers  do,  from  his  moral  system  into  the  physical 
frame,  which  is  but  the  shadow  of  the  former.  They 
looked  for  the  root  of  this  trouble  in  his /shattered 
schemes  of  domestic  bliss  —  wilfully  shattered  by  him- 
self —  but  could  not  be  satisfied  of  its  existence  there. 
Some  thought  that  their  once  brilliant  friend  was  in  an 
incipient  stage  of  insanity,  of  which  his  passionate 


24     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

impulses  had  perhaps  been  the  forerunners ;  others 
prognosticated  a  general  blight  and  gradual  decline. 
From  Roderick's  own  lips,  they  could  learn  nothing. 
More  than  once,  it  is  true,  he  had  been  heard  to  say, 
clutching  his  hands  convulsively  upon  his  breast  —  "  It 
gnaws  me  !  It  gnaws  me  !  "  —  but,  by  different  auditors, 
a  great  diversity  of  explanation  was  assigned  to  this 
ominous  expression.  What  could  it  be,  that  gnawed  the 
breast  of  Roderick  Elliston  ?  Was  it  sorrow  ?  Was  it 
merely  the  tooth  of  physical  disease  ?  Or,  in  his  reckless 
course,  often  verging  upon  profligacy,  if  not  plunging  into 
its  depths,  had  he  been  guilty  of  some  deed,  which  made 
his  bosom  a  prey  to  the  deadlier  pangs  of  remorse  ? 
There  was  plausible  ground  for  each  of  these  conjec- 
tures ;  but  it  must  not  be  concealed  that  more  than  one 
elderly  gentleman,  the  victim  of  good  cheer  and  slothful 
habits,  magisterially  pronounced  the  secret  of  the  whole 
matter  to  be  Dyspepsia ! 

Meanwhile,  Roderick  seemed  aware  how  generally 
he  had  become  the  subject  of  curiosity  and  conjecture, 
and,  with  a  morbid  repugnance  to  such  notice,  or  to 
any  notice  whatsoever,  estranged  himself  from  all  com- 
panionship. Not  merely  the  eye  of  man  was  a  horror 
to  him  ;  not  merely  the  light  of  a  friend's  countenance  ; 
but  even  the  blessed  sunshine,  likewise,  which,  in  its 
universal  beneficence,  typifies  the  radiance  of  the 
Creator's  face,  expressing  his  love  for  all  the  creatures 
of  his  hand.  The  dusky  twilight  was  now  too  trans- 
parent for  Roderick  Elliston  ;  the  blackest  midnight  was 
his  chosen  hour  to  steal  abroad;  and  if  ever  he  were 
seen,  it  was  when  the  watchman's  lantern  gleamed  upon 
his  figure,  gliding  along  the  street,  with  his  hands 
clutched  upon  his  bosom,  still  muttering  :  —  "It  gnaws 
me !  It  gnaws  me !  "  What  could  it  be  that  gnawed 
him? 

After  a  time,  it  became  known  that  Elliston  was  in 
the  habit  of  resorting  to  all  the  noted  quacks  that  in- 
fested the  city,  or  whom  money  would  tempt  to  journey 
thither  from  a  distance.  By  one  of  these  persons,  in  the 
exultation  of  a  supposed  cure,  it  was  proclaimed  far  and 


EGOTISM  25 

wide,  by  dint  of  hand-bills  and  little  pamphlets  on  dingy 
paper,  that  a  distinguished  gentleman,  Roderick  Elliston, 
Esq.,  had  been  relieved  of  a  SNAKE  in  his  stomach !  So 
here  was  the  monstrous  secret,  ejected  from  its  lurking- 
place  into  public  view,  in  all  its  horrible  deformity.  The 
mystery  was  out ;  but  not  so  the  bosom  serpent.  He,  if 
it  were  anything  but  a  delusion,  still  lay  coiled  in  his 
living  den.  The  empiric's  cure  had  been  a  sham,  the 
effect,  it  was  supposed,  of  some  stupefying  drug,  which 
more  nearly  caused  the  death  of  the  patient  than  of  the 
odious  reptile  that  possessed  him.  When  Roderick 
Elliston  regained  entire  sensibility,  it  was  to  find  his 
misfortune  the  town  talk  —  the  more  than  nine  days' 
wonder  and  horror  —  while,  at  his  bosom,  he  felt  the 
sickening  motion  of  a  thing  alive,  and  the  gnawing  of 
that  restless  fang,  which  seemed  to  gratify  at  once  a 
physical  appetite  and  a  fiendish  spite. 

He  summoned  the  old  black  servant,  who  had  been 
bred  up  in  his  father's  house,  and  was  a  middle-aged 
man  while  Roderick  lay  in  his  cradle. 

"  Scipio  !  "  he  began ;  and  then  paused,  with  his  arms 
folded  over  his  heart.  —  "What  do  people  say  of  me, 
Scipio  ? " 

"  Sir !  my  poor  master  !  that  you  had  a  serpent  in 
your  bosom,"  answered  the  servant,  with  hesitation. 

"And  what  else?"  asked  Roderick,  with  a  ghastly 
look  at  the  man. 

"  Nothing  else,  dear  master,"  replied  Scipio ;  —  "  only 
that  the  Doctor  gave  you  a  powder,  and  that  the  snake 
leapt  out  upon  the  floor." 

"  No,  no !  "  muttered  Roderick  to  himself,  as  he  shook 
his  head,  and  pressed  his  hands  with  a  more  convulsive 
force  upon  his  breast,  —  "I  feel  him  still.  It  gnaws 
me !  It  gnaws  me !  " 

From  this  time,  the  miserable  sufferer  ceased  to  shun 
the  world,  but  rather  solicited  and  forced  himself  upon 
the  notice  of  acquaintances  and  strangers.  It  was 
partly  the  result  of  desperation,  on  finding  that  the 
cavern  of  his  own  bosom  had  not  proved  deep  and  dark 
enough  to  hide  the  secret,  even  while  it  was  so  secure  a 


26     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

fortress  for  the  loathsome  fiend  that  had  crept  into  it. 
But  still  more,  this  craving  for  notoriety  was  a  symptom 
of  the  iptense  morbidness  which  now  pervaded  his 
nature/7  All  persons  chronically  diseased  are  egotists, 
whether  nre^disease  be  of  the  mind  or  body ;  whether 
sin,  sorrow,  or  merely  the  more  tolerable  calamity  of 
some  endless  pain,  or  mischief  among  the  cords  of  mor- 
tal life.  /Such  individuals  are  made  acutely  conscious  of 
a  self,  #y  the  torture  in  which  it  dwells.  Self,  therefore, 
grows  to  be  so  prominent  an  object  with  them,  that  they 
cannot  but  present  it  to  the  face  of  every  casual 
passer-by.  There  is  a  pleasure  —  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  which  the  sufferer  is  susceptible  —  in  displaying  the 
wasted  or  ulcerated  limb,  or  the  cancer  in  the  breast ; 
and  the  fouler  the  crime,  with  so  much  the  more  diffi- 
culty does  the  perpetrator  prevent  it  from  thrusting  up 
its  snakelike  head  to  frighten  the  world  ;  for  it  is  that 
cancer,  or  that  crime,  which  constitutes  their  respective 
individuality//  Roderick  Elliston,  who,  a  little  while 
before,  had  held  himself  so  scornfully  above  the  common 
lot  of  men,  now  paid  full  allegiance  to  this  humiliating 
law.  [  The  snake  in  his  bosom  seemed  the  symbol  of  a 
monstrous  egotism,  to  which  everything  was  referred, 
and  which  he  pampered,  night  and  dav^with  a  continual 
and  exclusive  sacrifice  of  devil-worshipT] 

He  soon  exhibited  what  most  people  considered 
indubitable  tokens  of  insanity.  In  some  of  his  moods, 
strange  to  say,  he  prided  and  gloried  himself  on  being 
marked  out  from  the  ordinary  experience  of  mankind,  by 
the  possession  of  a  double  nature,  and  a  life  within  a 
life.  He  appeared  to  imagine  that  the  snake  was  a 
divinity  —  not  celestial,  it  is  true,  but  darkly  infernal  — 
and  that  he  thence  derived  an  eminence  and  a  sanctity, 
horrid,  indeed,  yet  more  desirable  than  whatever  ambi- 
tion aims  at.  Thus  he  drew  his  misery  around  him  like 
a  regal  mantle,  and  looked  down  triumphantly  upon 
those  whose  vitals  nourished  no  deadly  monster. 
Oftener,  however,  his  human  nature  asserted  its  empire 
over  him,  in  the  shape  of  a  yearning  for  fellowship. 
It  grew  to  be  his  custom  to  spend  the  whole  day  in 


EGOTISM  27 

wandering  about  the  streets,  aimlessly,  unless  it  might 
be  called  an  aim  to  establish  a  species  of  brotherhood 
between  himself  and  the  world.  With  cankered  inge- 
nuity, he  sought  out  his  own  disease  in  every  breast. 
Whether  insane  or  not,  he  showed  so  keen  a  perception 
of  frailty,  error,  and  vice,  that  many  persons  gave  him 
credit  for  being  possessed  not  merely  with  a  serpent,  but 
with  an  actual  fiend,  who  imparted  this  evil  faculty  of 
recognizing  whatever  was  ugliest  in  man's  heart. 

For  instance,  he  met  an  individual,  who,  for  thirty 
years,  had  cherished  a  hatred  against  his  own  brother. 
Roderick,  amidst  the  throng  of  the  street,  laid  his  hand 
on  this  man's  chest,  and  looking  full  into  his  forbidding 
face,  — 

"  How  is  the  snake  to-day  ?  "  —  he  inquired,  with  a 
mock  expression  of  sympathy. 

"The  snake!"  exclaimed  the  brother-hater — "what 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"The  snake!  The  snake!  Does  he  gnaw  you?" 
persisted  Roderick.  "  Did  you  take  counsel  with  him 
this  morning,  when  you  should  have  been  saying  your 
prayers?  Did  he  sting,  when  you  thought  of  your 
brother's  health,  wealth,  and  good  repute  ?  Did  he 
caper  for  joy,  when  you  remembered  the  profligacy  of 
his  only  son  ?  .  And  whether  he  stung  or  whether  he 
frolicked,  did  you  feel  his  poison  throughout  your  body 
and  soul,  converting  everything  to  sourness  and  bitter- 
ness ?  That  is  the  way  of  such  serpents.  I  have 
learned  the  whole  nature  of  them  from  my  own !  " 

"  Where  is  the  police  ? "  roared  the  object  of  Roder- 
ick's persecution,  at  the  same  time  giving  an  instinctive 
clutch  to  his  breast.  "  Why  is  this  lunatic  allowed  to  go 
at  large  ? " 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  chuckled  Roderick,  releasing  his  grasp  of 
the  man.  —  "  His  bosom  serpent  has  stung  him,  then  !  " 

Often,  it  pleased  the  unfortunate  young  man  to  vex 
people  with  a  lighter  satire,  yet  still  characterized  by 
somewhat  of  snakelike  virulence.  One  day  he  encoun- 
tered an  ambitious  statesman,  and  gravely  inquired  after 
the  welfare  of  his  boa-constrictor ;  for  of  that  species, 


28     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

Roderick  affirmed,  this  gentleman's  serpent  must  needs 
be,  since  its  appetite  was  enormous  enough  to  devour 
the  whole  country  and  constitution.  At  another  time, 
he  stopped  a  close-fisted  old  fellow,  of  great  wealth,  but 
who  skulked  about  the  city  in  the  guise  of  a  scare-crow, 
with  a  patched  blue  surtout,  brown  hat,  and  mouldy 
boots,  scraping  pence  together,  and  picking  up  rusty 
nails.  Pretending  to  look  earnestly  at  this  respectable 
person's  stomach,  Roderick  assured  him  that  his  snake 
was  a  copperhead,  and  had  been  generated  by  the  im- 
mense quantities  of  that  base  metal,  with  which  he  daily 
defiled  his  fingers.  Again,  he  assaulted  a  man  of  rubi- 
cund visage,  and  told  him  that  few  bosom  serpents  had 
more  of  the  devil  in  them,  than  those  that  breed  in  the 
vats  of  a  distillery.  The  next  whom  Roderick  honored 
with  his  attention  was  a  distinguished  clergyman,  who 
happened  just  then  to  be  engaged  in  a  theological  con- 
troversy, where  human  wrath  was  more  perceptible  than 
divine  inspiration. 

"  You  have  swallowed  a  snake,  in  a  cup  of  sacramen- 
tal wine,"  quoth  he. 

"  Profane  wretch  !  "  exclaimed  the  Divine ;  but,  never- 
theless, his  hand  stole  to  his  breast. 

He  met  a  person  of  sickly  sensibility,  who,  on  some 
early  disappointment,  had  retired  frpm  the  world,  and 
thereafter  held  no  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  but 
brooded  sullenly  or  passionately  over  the  irrevocable 
past.  This  man's  very  heart,  if  Roderick  might  be  be- 
lieved, had  been  changed  into  a  serpent,  which  would 
finally  torment  both  him  and  itself  to  death.  Observing 
a  married  couple,  whose  domestic  troubles  were  matter 
of  notoriety,  he  condoled  with  both  on  having  mutually 
taken  a  house-adder  to  their  bosoms.  To  an  envious 
author,  who  deprecated  works  which  he  could  never 
equal,  he  said  that  his  snake  was  the  slimiest  and  filthiest 
of  all  the  reptile  tribe,  but  was  fortunately  without  a 
sting.  A  man  of  impure  life,  and  a  brazen  face,  asking 
Roderick  if  there  were  any  serpent  in  his  breast,  he  told 
him  that  there  was,  and  of  the  same  species  that  once 
tortured  Don  Rodrigo,  the  Goth.  He  took  a  fair  young 


EGOTISM  29 

girl  by  the  hand,  and,  gazing  sadly  into  her  eyes,  warned 
her  that  she  cherished  a  serpent  of  the  deadliest  kind 
within  her  gentle  breast ;  and  the  world  found  the  truth 
of  those  ominous  words,  when,  a  few  months  afterwards, 
the  poor  girl  died  of  love  and  shame.  Two  ladies, 
rivals  in  fashionable  life,  who  tormented  one  another 
with  a  thousand  little  stings  of  womanish  spite,  were 
given  to  understand,  that  each  of  their  hearts  was  a  nest 
of  diminutive  snakes,  which  did  quite  as  much  mischief 
as  one  great  one. 

vBut  nothing  seemed  to  please  Roderick  better  than  to 
lay  hold  of  a  person  infected  with  jealousy,  which  he 
represented  as  an  enormous  green  reptile,  with  an  ice- 
cold  length  of  body,  and  the  sharpest  sting  of  any  snake 
save  one. 

"And  what  one  is  that?"  asked  a  bystander,  over- 
hearing him. 

It  was  a  dark-browed  man,  who  put  the  question ;  he 
had  an  evasive  eye,  which,  in  the  course  of  a  dozen 
years,  had  looked  no  mortal  directly  in  the  face.  There 
was  an  ambiguity  about  this  person's  character  —  a  stain 
upon  his  reputation  —  yet  none  could  tell  precisely  of 
what  nature ;  although  the  city-gossips,  male  and  female, 
whispered  the  most  atrocious  surmises.  Until  a  recent 
period  he  had  followed  the  sea,  and  was,  in  fact,  the 
very  shipmaster  whom  George  Herkimer  had  encoun- 
tered, under  such  singular  circumstances,  in  the  Grecian 
Archipelago. 

"What  bosom  serpent  has  the  sharpest  sting?"  re- 
peated this  man ;  but  he  put  the  question  as  if  by  a 
reluctant  necessity,  and  grew  pale  while  he  was  uttering 
it. 

"Why  need  you  ask?"  replied  Roderick,  with  a  look 
of  dark  intelligence.  "  Look  into  your  own  breast ! 
Hark,  my  serpent  bestirs  himself.  He  acknowledges 
the  presence  of  a  master  fiend !  " 

And  then,  as  the  bystanders  afterwards  affirmed,  a 
hissing  sound  was  heard,  apparently  in  Roderick  Ellis- 
ton's  breast.  It  was  said,  too,  that  an  answering  hiss 
came  from  the  vitals  of  the  shipmaster,  as  if  a  snake 


30     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

were  actually  lurking  there,  and  had  been  aroused  by 
the  call  of  its  brother-reptile.  If  there  were  in  fact  any 
such  sound,  it  might  have  been  caused  by  a  malicious 
exercise  of  ventriloquism  on  the  part  of  Roderick. 

Thus,  making  his  own  actual  serpent  —  if  a  serpent 
there  actually  was  in  his  bosom  —  the  type  of  each  man's 
fatal  error,  or  hoarded  sin,  or  unquiet  conscience,  and 
striking  his  sting  so  unremorsefully  into  the  sorest  spot, 
we  may  well  imagine  that  Roderick  became  the  pest  of 
the  city.  Nobody  could  elude  him ;  none  could  with- 
stand him.  He  grappled  with  the  ugliest  truth  that  he 
could  lay  his  h|md  on,  and  compelled  his  adversary  to 
do  the  same.  Strange  spectacle  in  human  life,  where 
it  is  the  instinctive  effort  of  one  and  all  to  hide  those  sad 
realities,  and  leave  them  undisturbed  beneath  a  heap  of 
superficial  topics,  which  constitute  the  materials  of  inter- 
course between  man  and  manj/  It  was  not  to  be  toler- 
ated that  Roderick  Elliston  should  break  through  the 
tacit  compact,  by  which  the  world  has  done  its  best  to 
secure  repose, 'without  relinquishing  evil.  The  victims 
of  his  malicious  remarks,  it  is  true,  had  brothers  enough 
to  keep  them  in  countenance  ;  for,  by  Roderick's  theory, 
every  mortal  bosom  harbored  either  a  brood  of  small 
serpents,  or  one  overgrown  monster,  that  had  devoured 
all  the  rest.  Still,  the  city  could  not  bear  this  new 
apostle.  It  was  demanded  by  nearly  all,  and  particu- 
larly by  the  most  respectable  inhabitants,  that  Roderick 
should  no  longer  be  permitted  to  violate  the  received 
rules  of  decorum,  by  obtruding  his  own  bosom  serpent 
to  the  public  gaze,  and  dragging  those  of  decent  people 
from  their  lurking-places. 

Accordingly,  his  relatives  interfered,  and  placed  him 
in  a  private  asylum  for  the  insane.  When  the  news 
was  noised  abroad,  it  was  observed  that  many  persons 
walked  the  streets  with  freer  countenances,  and  covered 
their  breasts  less  carefully  with  their  hands. 

His  confinement,  however,  although  it  contributed 
not  a  little  to  the  peace  of  the  town,  operated  unfavor- 
ably upon  Roderick  himself.  In  solitude,  his  melan- 
choly grew  more  black  and  sullen.  He  spent  whole 


EGOTISM  31 

days  —  indeed,  it  was  his  sole  occupation  —  in  com- 
muning with  the  serpent.  A  conversation  was  sustained, 
in  which,  as  it  seemed,  the  hidden  monster  bore  a  part, 
though  unintelligibly  to  the  listeners,  and  inaudible, 
except  in  a  hiss.  Singular  as  it  may  appear,  the 
sufferer  had  now  contracted  a  sort  of  affection  for  his 
tormentor ;  mingled,  however,  with  the  intensest  loath- 
ing and  horror.  Nor  were  such  discordant  emotions 
incompatible ;  each,  on  the  contrary,  imparted  strength 
and  poignancy  to  its  opposite.  Horrible  love  —  horrible 
antipathy  —  embracing  one  another  in  his  bosom,  and 
both  concentrating  themselves  upon  a  being  that  had 
crept  into  his  vitals,  or  been  engendered  there,  and 
which  was  nourished  with  his  food,  and  lived  upon  his 
life,  and  was  as  intimate  with  him  as  his  own  heart,  and 
yet  was  the  foulest  of  all  created  things  !  But  not  the 
less  was  it  the  true  type  of  a  morbid  nature. 

Sometimes,  in  his  moments  of  rage  and  bitter  hatred 
against  the  snake  and  himself,  Roderick  determined  to 
be  the  death  of  him,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  own  life. 
Once  he  attempted  it  by  starvation.  But,  while  the 
wretched  man  was  on  the  point  of  famishing,  the 
monster  seemed  to  feed  upon  his  heart,  and  to  thrive 
and  wax  gamesome,  as  if  it  were  his  sweetest  and  most 
congenial  diet.  Then  he  privily  took  a  dose  of  active 
poison,  imagining  that  it  would  not  fail  to  kill  either 
himself,  or  the  devil  that  possessed  him,  or  both  together. 
Another  mistake ;  for  if  Roderick  had  not  yet  been 
destroyed  by  his  own  poisoned  heart,  nor  the  snake  by 
gnawing  it,  they  had  little  to  fear  from  arsenic  or 
corrosive  sublimate.  Indeed,  the  venomous  pest  ap- 
peared to  operate  as  an  antidote  against  all  other 
poisons.  The  physicians  tried  to  suffocate  the  fiend 
with  tobacco-smoke.  He  breathed  it  as  freely  as  if  it 
were  his  native  atmosphere.  Again,  they  drugged  their 
patient  with  opium,  and  drenched  him  with  intoxicating 
liquors,  hoping  that  the  snake  might  thus  be  reduced  to 
stupor,  and  perhaps  be  ejected  from  the  stomach.  They 
succeeded  in  rendering  Roderick  insensible;  but,  plac- 
ing their  hands  upon  his  breast,  they  were  inexpressibly 


32     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

horror-stricken  to  feel  the  monster  wriggling,  twining, 
and  darting  to  and  fro,  within  his  narrow  limits,  evi- 
dently enlivened  by  the  opium  or  alcohol,  and  incited  to 
unusual  feats  of  activity.  Thenceforth,  they  gave  up 
all  attempts  at  cure  or  palliation.  The  doomed  sufferer 
submitted  to  his  fate,  resumed  his  former  loathsome 
affection  for  the  bosom  fiend,  and  spent  whole  miser- 
able days  before  a  looking-glass,  with  his  mouth  wide 
open,  watching,  in  hope  and  horror,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  snake's  head,  far  down  within  his  throat.  It  is 
supposed  that  he  succeeded ;  for  the  attendants  once 
heard  a  frenzied  shout,  and,  rushing  into  the  room, 
found  Roderick  lifeless  upon  the  floor. 

He  was  kept  but  little  longer  under  restraint.  After 
minute  investigation,  the  medical  directors  of  the  asylum 
decided  that  his  mental  disease  did  not  amount  to  insan- 
ity, nor  would  warrant  his  confinement ;  especially  as 
its  influence  upon  his  spirits  was  unfavorable,  and  might 
produce  the  evil  which  it  was  meant  to  remedy.  His 
eccentricities  were  doubtless  great  —  he  had  habitually 
violated  many  of  the  customs  and  prejudices  of  society ; 
but  the  world  was  not,  without  surer  ground,  entitled  to 
treat  him  as  a  madman.  On  this  decision  of  such 
competent  authority,  Roderick  was  released,  and  had 
returned  to  his  native  city,  the  very  day  before  his 
encounter  with  George  Herkimer. 

As  soon  as  possible  after  learning  these  particulars, 
the  sculptor,  together  with  a  sad  and  tremulous  com- 
panion, sought  Elliston  at  his  own  house.  It  was  a 
large,  sombre  edifice  of  wood,  with  pilasters  and  a 
balcony,  and  was  divided  from  one  of  the  principal 
streets  by  a  terrace  of  three  elevations,  which  was 
ascended  by  successive  flights  of  stone  steps.  Some 
immense  old  elms  almost  concealed  the  front  of  the 
mansion.  This  spacious  and  once  magnificent  family- 
residence  was  built  by  a  grandee  of  the  race,  early  in 
the  past  century ;  at  which  epoch,  land  being  of  small 
comparative  value,  the  garden  and  other  grounds  had 
formed  quite  an  extensive  domain.  Although  a  portion 
of  the  ancestral  heritage  had  been  alienated,  there  was 


"YOU    ARE   COME!       I    HAVE    EXPECTED    YOU,"   SAID    ELLISTON. 


EGOTISM  33 

still  a  shadowy  enclosure  in  the  rear  of  the  mansion, 
where  a  student,  or  a  dreamer,  or  a  man  of  stricken 
heart,  might  lie  all  day  upon  the  grass,  amid  the  soli- 
tude of  murmuring  boughs,  and  forget  that  a  city  had 
grown  up  around  him. 

Into  this  retirement,  the  sculptor  and  his  companion 
were  ushered  by  Scipio,  the  old  black  servant,  whose 
wrinkled  visage  grew  almost  sunny  with  intelligence 
and  joy,  as  he  paid  his  humble  greetings  to  one  of  the 
two  visitors. 

"  Remain  in  the  arbor,"  whispered  the  sculptor  to  the 
figure  that  leaned  upon  his  arm ;  "  you  will  know  whether, 
and  when,  to  make  your  appearance." 

"  God  will  teach  me,"  was  the  reply.  "  May  he  sup- 
port me,  too ! " 

Roderick  was  reclining  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain, 
which  gushed  into  the  fleckered  sunshine  with  the  same 
clear  sparkle,  and  the  same  voice  of  airy  quietude,  as 
when  trees  of  primeval  growth  flung  their  shadows 
across  its  bosom.  How  strange  is  the  life  of  a  fountain, 
born  at  every  moment,  yet  of  an  age  coeval  with  the 
rocks,  and  far  surpassing  the  venerable  antiquity  of  a 
forest ! 

"  You  are  come !  I  have  expected  you,"  said  Ellis- 
ton,  when  he  became  aware  of  the  sculptor's  presence. 

His  manner  was  very  different  from  that  of  the  pre- 
ceding day —  quiet,  courteous,  and,  as  Herkimer  thought, 
watchful  both  over  his  guest  and  himself.  This  un- 
natural restraint  was  almost  the  only  trait  that  betokened 
anything  amiss.  He  had  just  thrown  a  book  upon  the 
grass,  where  it  lay  half-opened,  thus  disclosing  itself  to 
be  a  natural  history  of  the  serpent  tribe,  illustrated  by 
lifelike  plates.  Near  it  lay  that  bulky  volume,  the 
Ductor  Dubitantium  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  full  of  cases  of 
conscience,  and  in  which  most  men,  possessed  of  a  con- 
science, may  find  something  applicable  to  their  purpose. 

"  You  see,"  observed  Elliston,  pointing  to  the  book 
of  serpents,  while  a  smile  gleamed  upon  his  lips,  "  I 
am  making  an  effort  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  my  bosom  friend.  But  I  find  nothing  satisfactory 


34     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

in  this  volume.  If  I  mistake  not,  he  will  prove  to  be 
sui generis,  and  akin  to  no  other  reptile  in  creation." 

"Whence  came  this  strange  calamity?"  inquired  the 
sculptor. 

"  My  sable  friend,  Scipio,  has  a  story,"  replied  Rod- 
erick, "  of  a  snake  that  had  lurked  in  this  fountain  — 
pure  and  innocent  as  it  looks  —  ever  since  it  was  known 
to  the  first  settlers.  This  insinuating  personage  once 
crept  into  the  vitals  of  my  great-grandfather  and  dwelt 
there  many  years,  tormenting  the  old  gentleman  beyond 
mortal  endurance.  In  short,  it  is  a  family  peculiarity. 
But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  no  faith  in  this  idea  of 
the  snake's  being  an  heirloom.  He  is  my  own  snake, 
and  no  man's  else." 

"  But  what  was  his  origin  ?  "  demanded  Herkimer. 

'*  Qh !  there  is  poisonous  stuff  in  any  man's  heart, 
sufficient  to  generate  a  brood  of  serpents/*)  said  Ellis- 
ton,  with  a  hollow  laugh.  "You  shoula  have  heard 
my  homilies  to  the  good  townspeople.  Positively,  I 
deem  myself  fortunate  in  having  bred  but  a  single  ser- 
pent. You,  however,  have  none  in  your  bosom,  and 
therefore  cannot  sympathize  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
It  gnaws  me !  It  gnaws  me  !  " 

With  this  exclamation,  Roderick  lost  his  self-control 
and  threw  himself  upon  the  grass,  testifying  his  agony 
by  intricate  writhings,  in  which  Herkimer  could  not  but 
fancy  a  resemblance  to  the  motions  of  a  snake.  Then, 
likewise,  was  heard  that  frightful  hiss,  which  often  ran 
through  the  sufferer's  speech,  and  crept  between  the 
words  and  syllables,  without  interrupting  their  succession. 

"  This  is  awful  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  the  sculptor  — 
"  an  awful  infliction,  whether  it  be  actual  or  imaginary ! 
Tell  me,  Roderick  Elliston,  is  there  any  remedy  for  this 
loathsome  evil  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  an  impossible  one,"  muttered  Roderick, 
as  he  lay  wallowing  with  his  face  in  the  grass.  "  Could 
I,  for  one  instant,  forget  myself,  the  serpent  might  not 
abide  within  me.  It  is  my  diseased  self-contemplation 
that  has  engendered  and  nourished  him  !  " 

"Then  forget  yourself,  my  husband,"  said  a  gentle 


EGOTISM  35 

voice  above  him  — "  forget  yourself  in  the  idea  of 
another ! " 

Rosina  had  emerged  from  the  arbor,  and  was  bend- 
ing over  him,  with  the  shadow  of  his  anguish  reflected 
in  her  countenance,  yet  so  mingled  with  hope  and  un- 
selfish love,  that  all  anguish  seemed  but  an  earthly 
shadow  and  a  dream.  She  touched  Roderick  with 
her  hand.  A  tremor  shivered  through  his  frame.  At 
that  moment,  if  report  be  trustworthy,  the  sculptor 
beheld  a  waving  motion  through  the  grass,  and  heard 
a  tinkling  sound,  as  if  something  had  plunged  into 
the  fountain.  Be  the  truth  as  it  might,  it  is  certain 
that  Roderick  Elliston  sat  up,  like  a  man  renewed, 
restored  to  his  right  mind,  and  rescued  from  the  fiend 
which  had  so  miserably  overcome  him  in  the  battle-field 
of  his  own  breast. 

"  Rosina !  "  cried  he,  in  broken  and  passionate  tones, 
but  with  nothing  of  the  wild  wail  that  had  haunted  his 
voice  so  long.  "  Forgive  !  Forgive  !  " 

Her  happy  tears  bedewed  his  face. 

"  The  punishment  has  been  severe,"  observed  the 
sculptor.  "  Even  Justice  might  now  forgive  —  how 
much  more  a  woman's  tenderness !  Roderick  Elliston, 
whether  the  serpent  was  a  physical  reptile,  or  whether 
the  morbidness  of  your  nature  suggested  that  symbol  to 
your  fancy,Qhe  moral  of  the  story  is  not  the  less  true 
and  strong.  A  tremendous  Egotism  —  manifesting  it- 
self, in  your  case,  in  the  form  of  jealousy  —  is  as  fearful 
a  fiend  as  ever  stole  into  the  human  heart.  Can  a 
breast,  where  it  has  dwelt  so  long,  be  purified  ? " 

"  Oh,  yesj  ' ;-  said  Rosina,  with  a  heavenly  smile. 
"  The  serpent  was  but  a  dark  fantasy,  and  what  it 
typified  was  as  shadowy  as  itself.  The  past,  dismal 
as  it  seems,  shall  fling  no  gloom  upon  the  future.  To 
give  it  its  due  importance,  we  must  think  of  it  but  as  an 
anecdote  in  our  Eternity  !  " 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET 

PROM  THE   UNPUBLISHED    "ALLEGORIES   OF    THE  HEART" 

"  T  HAVE  here  attempted,"  said  Roderick,  unfolding 
A  a  few  sheets  of  manuscript,  as  he  sat  with  Rosina 
and  the  sculptor  in  the  summer-house  —  "I  have  at- 
tempted to  seize  hold  of  a  personage  who  glides  past 
me,  occasionally,  in  my  walk  through  life.  My  former 
sad  experience,  as  you  know,  has  gifted  me  with  some 
degree  of  insight  into  the  gloomy  mysteries  of  the 
human  heart,  through  which  I  have  wandered  like 
one  astray  in  a  dark  cavern,  with  his  torch  fast  flicker- 
ing to  extinction.  But  this  man  —  this  class  of  men  — 
is  a  hopeless  puzzle." 

"  Well,  but  propound  him,"  said  the  sculptor.  "  Let 
us  have  an  idea  of  him,  to  begin  with." 

"Why,  indeed,"  replied  Roderick,  "  he  is  such  a  being 
as  I  could  conceive  you  to  carve  out  of  marble,  and 
some  yet  unrealized  perfection  of  human  science  to 
endow  with  an  exquisite  mockery  of  intellect ;  but  still 
there  lacks  the  last  inestimable  touch  of  a  divine  Creator. 
He  looks  like  a  man,  and,  perchance,  like  a  better  speci- 
men of  man  than  you  ordinarily  meet.  You  might 
esteem  him  wise  —  he  is  capable  of  cultivation  and  re- 
finement, and  has  at  least  an  external  conscience  —  but 
the  demands  that  spirit  makes  upon  spirit  are  precisely 
those  to  which  he  cannot  respond.  When,  at  last,  you 
come  close  to  him,  you  find  him  chill  and  unsubstantial 
—  a  mere  vapor." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Rosina,  "  I  have  a  glimmering  idea 
of  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  be  thankful,"  answered  her  husband,  smiling ; 
"but  do  not  anticipate  any  further  illumination  from 
what  I  am  about  to  read.  I  have  here  imagined  such 
36 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        37 

a  man  to  be  —  what,  probably,  he  never  is  —  conscious 
of  the  deficiency  in  his  spiritual  organization.  Methinks 
the  result  would  be  a  sense  of  cold  unreality,  wherewith 
he  would  go  shivering  through  the  world,  longing  to 
exchange  his  load  of  ice  for  any  burthen  of  real  grief 
that  fate  could  fling  upon  a  human  being." 

Contenting  himself  with  this  preface,  Roderick  began 
to  read. 

In  a  certain  old  gentleman's  last  will  and  testament, 
there  appeared  a  bequest,  which,  as  his  final  thought 
and  deed,  was  singularly  in  keeping  with  a  long  life  of 
melancholy  eccentricity.  He  devised  a  considerable 
sum  for  establishing  a  fund,  the  interest  of  which  was 
to  be  expended,  annually  forever,  in  preparing  a  Christ- 
mas Banquet  for  ten  of  the  most  miserable  persons  that 
could  be  found.  It  seemed  not  to  be  the  testator's  pur- 
pose to  make  these  half-a  score  of  sad  hearts  merry,  but 
to  provide  that  the  stern  or  fierce  expression  of  human 
discontent  should  not  be  drowned,  even  for  that  one 
holy  and  joyful  day,  amid  the  acclamations  of  festal 
gratitude  which  all  Christendom  sends  up.  And  he 
desired,  likewise,  to  perpetuate  his  own  remonstrance 
against  the  earthly  course  of  Providence,  and  his  sad 
and  sour  dissent  from  those  systems  of  religion  or  phi- 
losophy which  either  find  sunshine  in  the  world,  or  draw 
it  down  from  heaven. 

The  task  of  inviting  the  guests,  or  of  selecting  among 
such  as  might  advance  their  claims  to  partake  of  this 
dismal  hospitality,  was  confided  to  the  two  trustees  or 
stewards  of  the  fund.  These  gentlemen,  like  their 
deceased  friend,  were  sombre  humorists,  who  made  it 
their  principal  occupation  to  number  the  sable  threads 
in  the  web  of  human  life,  and  drop  all  the  golden  ones 
out  of  the  reckoning.  They  performed  their  present 
office  with  integrity  and  judgment.  The  aspect  of  the 
assembled  company,  on  the  day  of  the  first  festival, 
might  not,  it  is  true,  have  satisfied  every  beholder  that 
these  were  especially  the  individuals,  chosen  forth  from 
all  the  world,  whose  griefs  were  worthy  to  stand  as 


38     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

indicators  of  the  mass  of  human  suffering.  Yet,  after 
due  consideration,  it  could  not  be  disputed  that  here 
was  a  variety  of  hopeless  discomfort,  which,  if  it  some- 
times arose  from  causes  apparently  inadequate,  was 
thereby  only  the  shrewder  imputation  against  the  nature 
and  mechanism  of  life. 

The  arrangements  and  decorations  of  the  banquet 
were  probably  intended  to  signify  that  death-in-life 
which  had  been  the  testator's  definition  of  existence. 
The  hall,  illuminated  by  torches,  was  hung  round  with 
curtains  of  deep  and  dusky  purple,  and  adorned  with 
branches  of  cypress  and  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers, 
imitative  of  such  as  used  to  be  strewn  over  the  dead. 
A  sprig  of  parsley  was  laid  by  every  plate.  The  main 
reservoir  of  wine  was  a  sepulchral  urn  of  silver,  whence 
the  liquor  was  distributed  around  the  table  in  small  vases, 
accurately  copied  from  those  that  held  the  tears  of 
ancient  mourners.  Neither  had  the  stewards  —  if  it 
were  their  taste  that  arranged  these  details  —  forgotten 
the  fantasy  of  the  old  Egyptians,  who  seated  a  skeleton 
at  every  festive  board,,  and  mocked  their  own  merri- 
ment with  the  imperturbable  grin  of  a  death's-head. 
Such  a  fearful  guest,  shrouded  in  a  black  mantle,  sat 
now  at  the  head  of  the  table.  It  was  whispered,  I  know 
not  with  what  truth,  that  the  testator  himself  had  once 
walked  the  visible  world  with  the  machinery  of  that 
same  skeleton,  and  that  it  was  one  of  the  stipulations 
of  his  will,  that  he  should  thus  be  permitted  to  sit,  from 
year  to  year,  at  the  banquet  which  he  had  instituted. 
If  so,  it  was  perhaps  covertly  implied  that  he  had 
cherished  no  hopes  of  bliss  beyond  the  grave,  to  com- 
pensate for  the  evils  which  he  felt  or  imagined  here. 
And  if,  in  their  bewildered  conjectures  as  to  the  pur- 
pose of  earthly  existence,  the  banqueters  should  throw 
aside  the  veil,  and  cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  this  fig- 
ure of  death,  as  seeking  thence  the  solution  otherwise 
unattainable,  the  only  reply  would  be  a  stare  of  the 
vacant  eye-caverns,  and  a  grin  of  the  skeleton-jaws. 
Such  was  the  response  that  the  dead  man  had  fancied 
himself  to  receive,  when  he  asked  of  Death  to  solve  the 


THE   CHRISTMAS    BANQUET        39 

riddle  of  his  life ;  and  it  was  his  desire  to  repeat  it, 
when  the  guests  of  his  dismal  hospitality  should  find 
themselves  perplexed  with  the  same  question. 

"What  means  that  wreath?"  asked  several  of  the 
company,  while  viewing  the  decorations  of  the  table. 

They  alluded  to  a  wreath  of  cypress,  which  was  held 
on  high  by  a  skeleton-arm,  protruding  from  within  the 
black  mantle. 

"It  is  a  crown,"  said  one  of  the  stewards,  "not  for 
the  worthiest,  but  for  the  wofullest,  when  he  shall  prove 
his  claim  to  it." 

The  guest  earliest  bidden  to  the  festival,  was  a  man 
of  soft  and  gentle  character,  who  had  not  energy  to 
struggle  against  the  heavy  despondency  to  which  his 
temperament  rendered  him  liable ;  and  therefore,  with 
nothing  outwardly  to  excuse  him  from  happiness,  he 
had  spent  a  life  of  quiet  misery,  that  made  his  blood 
torpid,  and  weighed  upon  his  breath,  and  sat  like  a 
ponderous  night-fiend  upon  every  throb  of  his  unre- 
sisting heart.  His  wretchedness  seemed  as  deep  as 
his  original  nature,  if  not  identical  with  it.  It  was  the 
misfortune  of  a  second  guest  to  cherish  within  his 
bosom  a  diseased  heart,  which  had  become  so  wretch- 
edly sore,  that  the  continual  and  unavoidable  rubs  of 
the  world,  the  blow  of  an  enemy,  the  careless  jostle  of 
a  stranger,  and  even  the  faithful  and  loving  touch  of  a 
friend,  alike  made  ulcers  in  it.  As  is  the  habit  of  peo- 
ple thus  afflicted,  he  found  his  chief  employment  in  ex- 
hibiting these  miserable  sores  to  any  who  would  give 
themselves  the  pain  of  viewing  them.  A  third  guest 
was  a  hypochondriac,  whose  imagination  wrought  nec- 
romancy in  his  outward  and  inward  world,  and  caused 
him  to  see  monstrous  faces  in  the  household  fire,  and 
dragons  in  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  fiends  in  the  guise 
of  beautiful  women,  and  something  ugly  or  wicked  be- 
neath all  the  pleasant  surfaces  of  nature.  His  neighbor 
at  table  was  one  who,  in  his  early  youth,  had  trusted 
mankind  too  much,  and  hoped  too  highly  in  their  be- 
half, and,  meeting  with  many  disappointments,  had 
become  desperately  soured.  For  several  years  back. 


40     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

this  misanthrope  had  employed  himself  in  accumulating 
motives  for  hating  and  despising  his  race  —  such  as 
murder,  lust,  treachery,  ingratitude,  faithlessness  of 
trusted  friends,  instinctive  vices  of  children,  impurity 
of  women,  hidden  guilt  in  men  of  saintlike  aspect  — 
and,  in  short,  all  manner  of  black  realities  that  sought 
to  decorate  themselves  with  outward  grace  or  glory. 
But  at  every  atrocious  fact  that  was  added  to  his  cata- 
logue—  at  every  increase  of  the  sad  knowledge  which 
he  spent  his  life  to  collect  —  the  native  impulses  of  the 
poor  man's  loving  and  confiding  heart  made  him  groan 
with  anguish.  Next,  with  his  heavy  brow  bent  down- 
ward, there  stole  into  the  hall  a  man  naturally  earnest 
and  impassioned,  who,  from  his  immemorial  infancy, 
had  felt  the  consciousness  of  a  high  message  to  the 
world,  but,  essaying  to  deliver  it,  had  found  either  no 
voice  or  form  of  speech,  or  else  no  ears  to  listen. 
Therefore  his  whole  life  was  a  bitter  questioning  of 
himself  —  "  Why  have  not  men  acknowledged  my  mis- 
sion ?  Am  I  not  a  self-deluding  fool  ?  What  business 
have  I  on  earth  ?  Where  is  my  grave  ?  "  Throughout 
the  festival,  he  quaffed  frequent  draughts  from  the 
sepulchral  urn  of  wine,  hoping  thus  to  quench  the  celes- 
tial fire  that  tortured  his  own  breast,  and  could  not 
benefit  his  race. 

Then  there  entered  —  having  flung  away  a  ticket  for 
a  ball  —  a  gay  gallant  of  yesterday,  who  had  found 
four  or  five  wrinkles  in  his  brow,  and  more  gray  hairs 
than  he  could  well  number,  on  his  head.  Endowed 
with  sense  and  feeling,  he  had  nevertheless  spent  his 
youth  in  folly,  but  had  reached  at  last  that  dreary  point 
in  life,  where  Folly  quits  us  of  her  own  accord,  leaving  us 
to  make  friends  with  Wisdom  if  we  can.  Thus,  cold 
and  desolate,  he  had  come  to  seek  Wisdom  at  the  ban- 
quet, and  wondered  if  the  skeleton  were  she.  To  eke 
out  the  company,  the  stewards  had  invited  a  distressed 
poet  from  his  home  in  the  almshouse,  and  a  melancholy 
idiot  from  the  street  corner.  The  latter  had  just  the 
glimmering  of  sense  that  was  sufficient  to  make  him 
conscious  of  a  vacancy,  which  the  poor  fellow,  all  his 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        41 

life  long,  had  mistily  sought  to  fill  up  with  intelligence, 
wandering  up  and  down  the  streets,  and  groaning  miser- 
ably, because  his  attempts  were  ineffectual.  The  only 
lady  in  the  hall  was  one  who  had  fallen  short  of  abso- 
lute and  perfect  beauty,  merely  by  the  trifling  defect 
of  a  slight  cast  in  her  left  eye.  But  this  blemish,  minute 
as  it  was,  so  shocked  the  pure  ideal  of  her  soul,  rather 
than  her  vanity,  that  she  passed  her  life  in  solitude,  and 
veiled  her  countenance  even  from  her  own  gaze.  So  the 
skeleton  sat  shrouded  at  one  end  of  the  table,  and  this 
poor  lady  at  the  other. 

One  other  guest  remains  to  be  described.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  smooth  brow,  fair  cheek,  and  fashionable 
mien.  So  far  as  his  exterior  developed  him,  he  might 
much  more  suitably  have  found  a  place  at  some  merry 
Christmas  table,  than  have  been  numbered  among  the 
blighted,  fate-stricken,  fancy-tortured  set  of  ill-starred 
banqueters.  Murmurs  arose  among  the  guests,  as  they 
noted  the  glance  of  general  scrutiny  which  the  intruder 
threw  over  his  companions.  What  had  he  to  do  among 
them  ?  Why  did  not  the  skeleton  of  the  dead  founder 
of  the  feast  unbend  its  rattling  joints,  arise,  and  motion 
the  unwelcome  stranger  from  the  board  ? 

"  Shameful !  "  said  the  morbid  man,  while  a  new  ulcer 
broke  out  in  his  heart.  "  He  comes  to  mock  us !  — we 
shall  be  the  jest  of  his  tavern  friends!  —  he  will  make 
a  farce  of  our  miseries,  and  bring  it  out  upon  the 
stage ! " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  him ! "  said  the  hypochondriac, 
smiling  sourly.  "He  shall  feast  from  yonder  tureen 
of  viper  soup  ;  and  if  there  is  a  fricassee  of  scorpions 
on  the  table,  pray  let  him  have  his  share  of  it.  For  the 
dessert,  he  shall  taste  the  apples  of  Sodom.  Then,  if  he 
like  our  Christmas  fare,  let  him  return  again  next  year  !  " 

"Trouble  him  not,"  murmured  the  melancholy  man, 
with  gentleness.  "What  matters  it  whether  the  con- 
sciousness of  misery  come  a  few  years  sooner  or  later  ? 
If  this  youth  deem  himself  happy  now,  yet  let  him  sit 
with  us,  for  the  sake  of  the  wretchedness  to  come." 

The  poor  idiot  approached  the  young  man,  with  that 


42     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

mournful  aspect  of  vacant  inquiry  which  his  face  con- 
tinually wore,  and  which  caused  people  to  say  that  he 
was  always  in  search  of  his  missing  wits.  After  no 
little  examination,  he  touched  the  stranger's  hand,  but 
immediately  drew  back  his  own,  shaking  his  head  and 
shivering. 

"  Cold,  cold,  cold ! "  muttered  the  idiot. 

The  young  man  shivered  too  —  and  smiled. 

"Gentlemen  —  and  you,  madam,"  —  said  one  of  the 
stewards  of  the  festival,  "  do  not  conceive  so  ill,  either 
of  our  caution  or  judgment,  as  to  imagine  that  we  have 
admitted  this  young  stranger  —  Gervayse  Hastings  by 
name  —  without  a  full  investigation  and  thoughtful 
balance  of  his  claims.  Trust  me,  not  a  guest  at  the 
table  is  better  entitled  to  his  seat." 

The  steward's  guarantee  was  perforce  satisfactory. 
The  company,  therefore,  took  their  places,  and  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  the  serious  business  of  the  feast, 
but  were  soon  disturbed  by  the  hypochondriac,  who 
thrust  back  his  chair,  complaining  that  a  dish  of  stewed 
toads  and  vipers  was  set  before  him,  and  that  there  was 
green  ditch-water  in  his  cup  of  wine.  This  mistake 
being  amended,  he  quietly  resumed  his  seat.  The  wine, 
as  it  flowed  freely  from  the  sepulchral  urn,  seemed  to 
come  imbued  with  all  gloomy  inspirations ;  so  that  its 
influence  was  not  to  cheer,  but  either  to  sink  the  revel- 
lers into  a  deeper  melancholy,  or  elevate  their  spirits  to 
an  enthusiasm  of  wretchedness.  The  conversation  was 
various.  They  told  sad  stories  about  people  who  might 
have  been  worthy  guests  at  such  a  festival  as  the  pres- 
ent. They  talked  of  grisly  incidents  in  human  history ; 
of  strange  crimes,  which,  if  truly  considered,  were  but 
convulsions  of  agony ;  of  some  lives  that  had  been  alto- 
gether wretched,  and  of  others,  which,  wearing  a  gen- 
eral semblance  of  happiness,  had  yet  been  deformed, 
sooner  or  later,  by  misfortune,  as  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
grim  face  at  a  banquet ;  of  death-bed  scenes,  and  what 
dark  intimations  might  be  gathered  from  the  words  of 
dying  men ;  of  suicide,  and  whether  the  more  eligible 
mode  were  by  halter,  knife,  poison,  drowning,  gradual 


THE   CHRISTMAS    BANQUET       43 

starvation,  or  the  fumes  of  charcoal.  The  majority  of 
the  guests,  as  is  the  custom  with  people  thoroughly  and 
profoundly  sick  at  heart,  were  anxious  to  make  their 
own  woes  the  theme  of  discussion,  and  prove  themselves 
most  excellent  in  anguish.  The  misanthropist  went 
deep  into  the  philosophy  of  evil,  and  wandered  about 
in  the  darkness,  with  now  and  then  a  gleam  of  dis- 
colored light  hovering  on  ghastly  shapes  and  horrid 
scenery.  Many  a  miserable  thought,  such  as  men  have 
stumbled  upon  from  age  to  age,  did  he  now  rake  up 
again,  and  gloat  over  it  as  an  inestimable  gem,  a  dia- 
mond, a  treasure  far  preferable  to  those  bright,  spiritual 
revelations  of  a  better  world,  which  are  like  precious 
stones  from  heaven's  pavement.  And  then,  amid  his 
lore  of  wretchedness,  he  hid  his  face  and  wept. 

It  was  a  festival  at  which  the  woful  man  of  Uz  might 
suitably  have  been  a  guest,  together  with  all,  in  each 
succeeding  age,  who  have  tasted  deepest  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  life.  And  be  it  said,  too,  that  every  son  or 
daughter  of  woman,  however  favored  with  happy  for- 
tune, might,  at  one  sad  moment  or  another,  have  claimed 
the  privilege  of  a  stricken  heart,  to  sit  down  at  this 
table.  But,  throughout  the  feast,  it  was  remarked  that 
the  young  stranger,  Gervayse  Hastings,  was  unsuccess- 
ful in  his  attempts  to  catch  its  pervading  spirit.  At  any 
deep,  strong  thought  that  found  utterance,  and  which 
was  torn  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  saddest  recesses  of 
human  consciousness,  he  looked  mystified  and  bewil- 
dered ;  even  more  than  the  poor  idiot,  who  seemed  to 
grasp  at  such  things  with  his  earnest  heart,  and  thus 
occasionally  to  comprehend  them.  The  young  man's 
conversation  was  of  a  colder  and  lighter  kind,  often 
brilliant,  but  lacking  the  powerful  characteristics  of  a 
nature  that  had  been  developed  by  suffering. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  misanthropist,  bluntly,  in  reply  to 
some  observation  by  Gervayse  Hastings,  "pray  do  not 
address  me  again.  We  have  no  right  to  talk  together. 
Our  minds  have  nothing  in  common.  By  what  claim 
you  appear  at  this  banquet,  I  cannot  guess;  but  me- 
thinks,  to  a  man  who  could  say  what  you  have  just  now 


44     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

said,  my  companions  and  myself  must  seem  no  more 
than  shadows,  flickering  on  the  wall.  And  precisely 
such  a  shadow  are  you  to  us !  " 

The  young  man  smiled  and  bowed,  but  drawing  him- 
self back  in  his  chair,  he  buttoned  his  coat  over  his 
breast,  as  if  the  banquet-hall  were  growing  chill.  Again 
the  idiot  fixed  his  melancholy  stare  upon  the  youth,  and 
murmured  —  "  Cold,  cold,  cold  !  " 

The  banquet  drew  to  its  conclusion,  and  the  guests 
departed.  Scarcely  had  they  stepped  across  the  thresh- 
old of  the  hall,  when  the  scene  that  had  there  passed 
seemed  like  the  vision  of  a  sick  fancy,  or  an  exhalation 
from  a  stagnant  heart.  Now  and  then,  however,  during 
the  year  that  ensued,  these  melancholy  people  caught 
glimpses  of  one  another,  transient,  indeed,  but  enough 
to  prove  that  they  walked  the  earth  with  the  ordinary 
allotment  of  reality.  Sometimes,  a  pair  of  them  came 
face  to  face,  while  stealing  through  the  evening  twilight, 
enveloped  in  their  sable  cloaks.  Sometimes,  they  casu- 
ally met  in  churchyards.  Once,  also,  it  happened,  that 
two  of  the  dismal  banqueters  mutually  started,  at  recog- 
nizing each  other  in  the  noon-day  sunshine  of  a  crowded 
street,  stalking  there  like  ghosts  astray.  Doubtless, 
they  wondered  why  the  skeleton  did  not  come  abroad 
at  noon-day,  too ! 

But,  whenever  the  necessity  of  their  affairs  compelled 
these  Christmas  guests  into  the  bustling  world,  they 
were  sure  to  encounter  the  young  man,  who  had  so  un- 
accountably been  admitted  to  the  festival.  They  saw 
him  among  the  gay  and  fortunate ;  they  caught  the 
sunny  sparkle  of  his  eye ;  they  heard  the  light  and 
careless  tones  of  his  voice  —  and  muttered  to  them- 
selves, with  such  indignation  as  only  the  aristocracy  of 
wretchedness  could  kindle  :  —  "  The  traitor !  The  vile 
impostor !  Providence,  in  its  own  good  time,  may  give 
him  a  right  to  feast  among  us !  "  But  the  young  man's 
unabashed  eye  dwelt  upon  their  gloomy  figures,  as  they 
passed  him,  seeming  to  say,  perchance  with  somewhat 
of  a  sneer  —  "  First,  know  my  secret !  —  then,  measure 
your  claims  with  mine !  " 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        45 

The  step  of  Time  stole  onward,  and  soon  brought 
merry  Christmas  round  again,  with  glad  and  solemn 
worship  in  the  churches,  and  sports,  games,  festivals, 
and  everywhere  the  bright  face  of  Joy  beside  the  house- 
hold fire.  Again,  likewise,  the  hall,  with  its  curtains  of 
dusky  purple,  was  illuminated  by  the  death-torches, 
gleaming  on  the  sepulchral  decorations  of  the  banquet. 
The  veiled  skeleton  sat  in  state,  lifting  the  cypress- 
wreath  above  its  head,  as  the  guerdon  of  some  guest, 
illustrious  in  the  qualifications  which  there  claimed  pre- 
cedence. As  the  stewards  deemed  the  world  inexhaust- 
ible in  misery,  and  were  desirous  of  recognizing  it  in  all 
its  forms,  they  had  not  seen  fit  to  reassemble  the  com- 
pany of  the  former  year.  New  faces  now  threw  their 
gloom  across  the  table. 

There  was  a  man  of  nice  conscience,  who  bore  a 
blood-stain  in  his  heart  —  the  death  of  a  fellow-creature 
—  which,  for  his  more  exquisite  torture,  had  chanced 
with  such  a  peculiarity  of  circumstances,  that  he  could 
not  absolutely  determine  whether  his  will  had  entered 
into  the  deed  or  not.  Therefore,  his  whole  life  was 
spent  in  the  agony  of  an  inward  trial  for  murder,  with 
a  continual  sifting  of  the  details  of  his  terrible  calamity, 
until  his  mind  had  no  longer  any  thought,  nor  his  soul 
any  emotion,  disconnected  with  it.  There  was  a  mother, 
too,  —  a  mother  once,  but  a  desolation  now,  —  who,  many 
years  before,  had  gone  out  on  a  pleasure-party,  and, 
returning,  found  her  infant  smothered  in  its  little  bed. 
And  ever  since  she  had  been  tortured  with  the  fantasy, 
that  her  buried  baby  lay  smothering  in  its  coffin.  Then 
there  was  an  aged  lady,  who  had  lived  from  time  im- 
memorial with  a  constant  tremor  quivering  through  her 
frame.  It  was  terrible  to  discern  her  dark  shadow  trem- 
ulous upon  the  wall ;  her  lips,  likewise,  were  tremulous ; 
and  the  expression  of  her  eye  seemed  to  indicate  that 
her  soul  was  trembling  too.  Owing  to  the  bewilder- 
ment and  confusion  which  made  almost  a  chaos  of  her 
intellect,  it  was  impossible  to  discover  what  dire  misfor- 
tune had  thus  shaken  her  nature  to  its  depths ;  so  that 
the  stewards  had  admitted  her  to  the  table,  not  from 


46     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

any  acquaintance  with  her  history,  but  on  the  safe  testi- 
mony of  her  miserable  aspect.  Some  surprise  was  ex- 
pressed at  the  presence  of  a  bluff,  red-faced  gentleman, 
a  certain  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  evidently  the  fat  of  many 
a  rich  feast  within  him,  and  the  habitual  twinkle  of 
whose  eye  betrayed  a  disposition  to  break  forth  into 
uproarious  laughter,  for  little  cause  or  none.  It  turned 
out,  however,  that,  with  the  best  possible  flow  of  spirits, 
our  poor  friend  was  afflicted  with  a  physical  disease  of 
the  heart,  which  threatened  instant  death  on  the  slight- 
est cachinnatory  indulgence,  or  even  that  titillation  of 
the  bodily  frame,  produced  by  merry  thoughts.  In  this 
dilemma,  he  had  sought  admittance  to  the  banquet,  on 
the  ostensible  plea  of  his  irksome  and  miserable  state, 
but,  in  reality,  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  a  life-preserv- 
ing melancholy. 

A  married  couple  had  been  invited,  from  a  motive  of 
bitter  humor;  it  being  well  understood,  that  they  ren- 
dered each  other  unutterably  miserable  whenever  they 
chanced  to  meet,  and  therefore  must  necessarily  be  fit 
associates  at  the  festival.  In  contrast  with  these,  was 
another  couple,  still  unmarried,  who  had  interchanged 
their  hearts  in  early  life,  but  had  been  divided  by  cir- 
cumstances as  impalpable  as  morning  mist,  and  kept 
apart  so  long,  that  their  spirits  now  found  it  impossible 
to  meet.  Therefore,  yearning  for  communion,  yet 
shrinking  from  one  another,  and  choosing  none  beside, 
they  felt  themselves  companionless  in  life,  and  looked 
upon  eternity  as  a  boundless  desert.  Next  to  the  skele- 
ton sat  a  mere  son  of  earth  —  a  hunter  of  the  Exchange 
—  a  gatherer  of  shining  dust  —  a  man  whose  life's  rec- 
ord was  in  his  ledger,  and  whose  soul's  prison-house, 
the  vaults  of  the  bank  where  he  kept  his  deposits. 
This  person  had  been  greatly  perplexed  at  his  invita- 
tion, deeming  himself  one  of  the  most  fortunate  men  in 
the  city;  but  the  stewards  persisted  in  demanding  his 
presence,  assuring  him  that  he  had  no  conception  how 
miserable  he  was. 

And  now  appeared  a  figure,  which  we  must  acknowledge 
as  our  acquaintance  of  the  former  festival.  It  was  Ger- 


THE    CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        47 

vayse  Hastings,  whose  presence  had  then  caused  so  much 
question  and  criticism,  and  who  now  took  his  place  with 
the  composure  of  one  whose  claims  were  satisfactory  to 
himself,  and  must  needs  be  allowed  by  others.  Yet  his 
easy  and  unruffled  face  betrayed  no  sorrow.  The  well- 
skilled  beholders  gazed  a  moment  into  his  eyes,  and 
shook  their  heads,  to  miss  the  unuttered  sympathy  — 
the  countersign,  never  to  be  falsified  —  of  those  whose 
hearts  are  cavern-mouths,  through  which  they  descend 
into  a  region  of  illimitable  woe,  and  recognize  other 
wanderers  there. 

"Who  is  this  youth?"  asked  the  man  with  a  blood- 
stain on  his  conscience.  "  Surely  he  has  never  gone 
down  into  the  depths !  I  know  all  the  aspects  of  those 
who  have  passed  through  the  dark  valley.  By  what 
right  is  he  among  us  ? " 

"  Ah,  it  is  a  sinful  thing  to  come  hither  without  a 
sorrow,"  murmured  the  aged  lady,  in  accents  that  par- 
took of  the  eternal  tremor  which  pervaded  her  whole 
being.  "  Depart,  young  man !  Your  soul  has  never 
been  shaken ;  and  therefore  I  tremble  so  much  the 
more  to  look  at  you." 

"His  soul  shaken!  No;  I'll  answer  for  it,"  said 
bluff  Mr.  Smith,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
making  himself  as  melancholy  as  he  could,  for  fear  of  a 
fatal  explosion  of  laughter.  "  I  know  the  lad  well ;  he 
has  as  fair  prospects  as  any  young  man  about  town, 
and  has  no  more  right  among  us,  miserable  creatures, 
than  the  child  unborn.  He  never  was  miserable,  and 
probably  never  will  be  !  " 

"  Our  honored  guests,"  interposed  the  stewards, 
"  pray  have  patience  with  us,  and  believe,  at  least,  that 
our  deep  veneration  for  the  sacredness  of  this  solemnity 
would  preclude  any  wilful  violation  of  it.  Receive  this 
young  man  to  your  table.  It  may  not  be  too  much  to 
say,  that  no  guest  here  would  exchange  his  own  heart 
for  the  one  that  beats  within  that  youthful  bosom  !  " 

"  I  'd  call  it  a  bargain,  and  gladly  too,"  muttered  Mr. 
Smith,  with  a  perplexing  mixture  of  sadness  and  mirth- 
ful conceit.  "  A  plague  upon  their  nonsense !  My  own 


48     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

heart  is  the  only  really  miserable  one  in  the  company  — 
it  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  me  at  last !  " 

Nevertheless,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  judgment 
of  the  stewards  being  without  appeal,  the  company  sat 
down.  The  obnoxious  guest  made  no  more  attempt  to 
obtrude  his  conversation  on  those  about  him,  but  ap- 
peared to  listen  to  the  table-talk  with  peculiar  assiduity, 
as  if  some  inestimable  secret,  otherwise  beyond  his 
reach,  might  be  conveyed  in  a  casual  word.  And  in 
truth,  to  those  who  could  understand  and  value  it,  there 
was  rich  matter  in  the  upgushings  and  outpourings  of 
these  initiated  souls,  to  whom  sorrow  had  been  a  talis- 
man, admitting  them  into  spiritual  depths  which  no 
other  spell  can  open.  Sometimes,  out  of  the  midst  of 
densest  gloom,  there  flashed  a  momentary  radiance,  pure 
as  crystal,  bright  as  the  flame  of  stars,  and  shedding 
such  a  glow  upon  the  mysteries  of  life,  that  the  guests 
were  ready  to  exclaim:  "Surely  the  riddle  is  on  the 
point  of  being  solved  !  "  At  such  illuminated  intervals, 
the  saddest  mourners  felt  it  to  be  revealed,  that  mortal 
griefs  are  but  shadowy  and  external ;  no  more  than  the 
sable  robes,  voluminously  shrouding  a  certain  divine 
reality,  and  thus  indicating  what  might  otherwise  be 
altogether  invisible  to  mortal  eye. 

"Just  now,"  remarked  the  trembling  old  woman,  "I 
seemed  to  see  beyond  the  outside.  And  then  my  ever- 
lasting tremor  passed  away  !  " 

"  Would  that  I  could  dwell  always  in  these  momen- 
tary gleams  of  light !  "  said  the  man  of  stricken  con- 
science. "  Then  the  blood-stain  in  my  heart  would  be 
washed  clean  away." 

This  strain  of  conversation  appeared  so  unintelligibly 
absurd  to  good  Mr.  Smith,  that  he  burst  into  precisely 
the  fit  of  laughter  which  his  physicians  had  warned  him 
against,  as  likely  to  prove  instantaneously  fatal.  In 
effect,  he  fell  back  in  his  chair,  a  corpse,  with  a  broad 
grin  upon  his  face ;  while  his  ghost,  perchance,  remained 
beside  it  bewildered  at  its  unpremeditated  exit.  This 
catastrophe,  of  course,  broke  up  the  festival. 

"  How  is  this  ?     You  do  not  tremble  ?  "  observed  the 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        49 

tremulous  old  woman  to  Gervayse  Hastings,  who  was 
gazing  at  the  dead  man  with  singular  intentness.  "  Is 
it  not  awful  to  see  him  so  suddenly  vanish  out  of  the 
midst  of  life  —  this  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  whose  earthly 
nature  was  so  warm  and  strong  ?  There  is  a  never  ending 
tremor  in  my  soul ;  but  it  trembles  afresh  at  this !  And 
you  are  calm  !  " 

"  Would  that  he  could  teach  me  somewhat ! "  said 
Gervayse  Hastings,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "  Men  pass 
before  me  like  shadows  on  the  wall  —  their  actions,  pas- 
sions, feelings,  are  flickerings  of  the  light  —  and  then 
they  vanish !  Neither  the  corpse,  nor  yonder  skeleton, 
nor  this  old  woman's  everlasting  tremor,  can  give  me 
what  I  seek." 

And  then  the  company  departed. 

We  cannot  linger  to  narrate,  in  such  detail,  more  cir- 
cumstances of  these  singular  festivals,  which,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  founder's  will,  continued  to  be  kept  with 
the  regularity  of  an  established  institution.  In  process 
of  time,  the  stewards  adopted  the  custom  of  inviting, 
from  far  and  near,  those  individuals  whose  misfortunes 
were  prominent  above  other  men's,  and  whose  mental 
and  moral  development  might,  therefore,  be  supposed 
to  possess  a  corresponding  interest.  The  exiled  noble 
of  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  broken  soldier  of  the 
Empire,  were  alike  represented  at  the  table.  Fallen 
monarchs,  wandering  about  the  earth,  have  found  places 
at  that  forlorn  and  miserable  feast.  The  statesman,  when 
his  party  flung  him  off,  might,  if  he  chose  it,  be  once 
more  a  great  man  for  the  space  of  a  single  banquet. 
Aaron  Burr's  name  appears  on  the  record,  at  a  period 
when  his  ruin  —  the  profoundest  and  most  striking, 
with  more  of  moral  circumstance  in  it  than  that  of 
almost  any  other  man — was  complete,  in  his  lonely 
age.  Stephen  Girard,  when  his  wealth  weighed  upon 
him  like  a  mountain,  once  sought  admittance  of  his  own 
accord.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  these  men 
had  any  lesson  to  teach  in  the  lore  of  discontent  and 
misery,  which  might  not  equally  well  have  been  studied 
in  the  common  walks  of  life.  Illustrious  unfortunates 


50     MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

attract  a  wider  sympathy,  not  because  their  griefs  are 
more  intense,  but  because,  being  set  on  lofty  pedestals, 
they  the  better  serve  mankind  as  instances  and  by-words 
of  calamity. 

It  concerns  our  present  purpose  to  say  that,  at  each 
successive  festival,  Gervayse  Hastings  showed  his  face, 
gradually  changing  from  the  smooth  beauty  of  his  youth 
to  the  thoughtful  comeliness  of  manhood,  and  thence  to 
the  bald,  impressive  dignity  of  age.  He  was  the  only 
individual  invariaWy  present.  Yet,  on  every  occasion, 
there  were  murmurs,  both  from  those  who  knew  his 
character  and  position,  and  from  them  whose  hearts 
shrank  back,  as  denying  his  companionship  in  their 
mystic  fraternity. 

"  Who  is  this  impassive  man  ? "  had  been  asked  a 
hundred  times.  "  Has  he  suffered  ?  Has  he  sinned  ? 
There  are  no  traces  of  either.  Then  wherefore  is  he 
here  ? " 

"  You  must  inquire  of  the  stewards,  or  of  himself," 
was  the  constant  reply.  "  We  seem  to  know  him  well, 
here  in  our  city,  and  know  nothing  of  him  but  what  is 
creditable  and  fortunate.  Yet  hither  he  comes,  year 
after  year,  to  this  gloomy  banquet,  and  sits  among  the 
guests  like  a  marble  statue.  Ask  yonder  skeleton  — 
perhaps  that  may  solve  the  riddle !  " 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  wonder.  The  life  of  Gervayse 
Hastings  was  not  merely  a  prosperous,  but  a  brilliant 
one.  Everything  had  gone  well  with  him.  He  was 
wealthy,  far  beyond  the  expenditure  that  was  required 
by  habits  of  magnificence,  a  taste  of  rare  purity  and 
cultivation,  a  love  of  travel,  a  scholar's  instinct  to  collect 
a  splendid  library,  and,  moreover,  what  seemed  a  munifi- 
cent liberality  to  the  distressed.  He  had  sought  do- 
mestic happiness,  and  not  vainly,  if  a  lovely  and  tender 
wife,  and  children  of  fair  promise,  could  insure  it.  He 
had,  besides,  ascended  above  the  limit  which  separates 
the  obscure  from  the  distinguished,  and  had  won  a  stain- 
less reputation  in  affairs  of  the  widest  public  importance. 
Not  that  he  was  a  popular  character,  or  had  within  him 
the  mysterious  attributes  which  are  essential  to  that 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        51 

species  of  success.  To  the  public,  he  was  a  cold  ab- 
straction, wholly  destitute  of  those  rich  hues  of  personal- 
ity, that  living  warmth,  and  the  peculiar  faculty  of 
stamping  his  own  heart's  impression  on  a  multitude  of 
hearts,  by  which  the  people  recognize  their  favorites. 
And  it  must  be  owned  that,  after  his  most  intimate  as- 
sociates had  done  their  best  to  know  him  thoroughly, 
and  love  him  warmly,  they  were  startled  to  find  how 
little  hold  he  had  upon  their  affections.  They  approved 
—  they  admired  —  but  still,  in  those  moments  when  the 
human  spirit  most  craves  reality,  they  shrank  back  from 
Gervayse  Hastings,  as  powerless  to  give  them  what 
they  sought.  It  was  the  feeling  of  distrustful  regret, 
with  which  we  should  draw  back  the  hand,  after  extend- 
ing it,  in  an  illusive  twilight,  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a 
shadow  upon  the  wall. 

As  the  superficial  fervency  of  youth  decayed,  this 
peculiar  effect  of  Gervayse  Hastings'  character  grew 
more  perceptible.  His  children,  when  he  extended  his 
arms,  came  coldly  to  his  knees,  but  never  climbed  them 
of  their  own  accord.  His  wife  wept  secretly,  and  al- 
most adjudged  herself  a  criminal,  because  she  shivered 
in  the  chill  of  his  bosom.  He,  too,  occasionally  ap- 
peared not  unconscious  of  the  chillness  of  his  moral 
atmosphere,  and  willing,  if  it  might  be  so,  to  warm 
himself  at  a  kindly  fire.  But  age  stole  onward,  and 
benumbed  him  more  and  more.  As  the  hoar-frost 
began  to  gather  on  him,  his  wife  went  to  her  grave, 
and  was  doubtless  warmer  there ;  his  children  either 
died,  or  were  scattered  to  different  homes  of  their  own ; 
and  old  Gervayse  Hastings,  unscathed  by  grief  —  alone, 
but  needing  no  companionship  —  continued  his  steady 
walk  through  life,  and  still,  on  every  Christmas-day, 
attended  at  the  dismal  banquet.  His  privilege  as  a 
guest  had  become  prescriptive  now.  Had  he  claimed 
the  head  of  the  table,  even  the  skeleton  would  have 
been  ejected  from  its  seat. 

Finally,  at  the  merry  Christmas-tide,  when  he  had 
numbered  four-score  years  complete,  this  pale,  high- 
browed,  marble-featured  old  man  once  more  entered  the 


52     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

long-frequented  hall,  with  the  same  impassive  aspect 
that  had  called  forth  so  much  dissatisfied  remark  at  his 
first  attendance.  Time,  except  in  matters  merely  ex- 
ternal, had  done  nothing  for  him,  either  of  good  or  evil. 
As  he  took  his  place  he  threw  a  calm,  inquiring  glance 
around  the  table,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  any  guest 
had  yet  appeared,  after  so  many  unsuccessful  banquets, 
who  might  impart  to  him  the  mystery  —  the  deep,  warm 
secret  —  the  life  within  the  life  —  which,  whether  mani- 
fested in  joy  or  sorrow,  is  what  gives  substance  to  a 
world  of  shadows. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Gervayse  Hastings,  assuming  a 
position  which  his  long  conversance  with  the  festival 
caused  to  appear  natural,  "  you  are  welcome !  I  drink 
to  you  all  in  this  cup  of  sepulchral  wine." 

The  guests  replied  courteously,  but  still  in  a  manner 
that  proved  them  unable  to  receive  the  old  man  as  a 
member  of  their  sad  fraternity.  It  may  be  well  to 
give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  present  company  at  the 
banquet. 

One  was  formerly  a  clergyman,  enthusiastic  in  his 
profession,  and  apparently  of  the  genuine  dynasty  of 
those  old  puritan  divines,  whose  faith  in  their  calling, 
and  stern  exercise  of  it,  had  placed  them  among  the 
mighty  of  the  earth.  But,  yielding  to  the  speculative 
tendency  of  the  age,  he  had  gone  astray  from  the  firm 
foundation  of  an  ancient  faith,  and  wandered  into  a 
cloud  region,  where  everything  was  misty  and  deceptive, 
ever  mocking  him  with  a  semblance  of  reality,  but  still 
dissolving  when  he  flung  himself  upon  it  for  support 
and  rest.  His  instinct  and  early  training  demanded 
something  steadfast ;  but,  looking  forward,  he  beheld 
vapors  piled  on  vapors,  and  behind  him,  an  impassable 
gulf  between  the  man  of  yesterday  and  to-day ;  on  the 
borders  of  which  he  paced  to  and  fro,  sometimes  wring- 
ing his  hands  in  agony,  and  often  making  his  own  woe 
a  theme  of  scornful  merriment.  This  surely  was  a 
miserable  man.  Next,  there  was  a  theorist  —  one  of  a 
numerous  tribe,  although  he  deemed  himself  unique 
since  the  creation  —  a  theorist,  who  had  conceived  a  plan 


THE   CHRISTMAS    BANQUET        53 

by  which  all  the  wretchedness  of  earth,  moral  and  physi- 
cal, might  be  done  away,  and  the  bliss  of  the  millennium 
at  once  accomplished.  But,  the  incredulity  of  mankind 
debarring  him  from  action,  he  was  smitten  with  as 
much  grief  as  if  the  whole  mass  of  woe  which  he  was 
denied  the  opportunity  to  remedy,  were  crowded  into 
his  own  bosom.  A  plain  old  man  in  black  attracted 
much  of  the  company's  notice,  on  the  supposition  that 
he  was  no  other  than  Father  Miller,  who,  it  seemed,  had 

fiven  himself  up  to  despair  at  the  tedious  delay  of  the 
nal  conflagration.  Then  there  was  a  man  distinguished 
for  native  pride  and  obstinacy,  who,  a  little  while  before, 
had  possessed  immense  wealth,  and  held  the  control  of 
a  vast  monied  interest,  which  he  had  wielded  in  the 
same  spirit  as  a  despotic  monarch  would  wield  the 
power  of  his  empire,  carrying  on  a  tremendous  moral 
warfare,  the  roar  and  tremor  of  which  was  felt  at  every 
fireside  in  the  land.  At  length  came  a  crushing  ruin  — 
a  total  overthrow  of  fortune,  power,  and  character  —  the 
effect  of  which  on  his  imperious,  and,  in  many  respects, 
noble  and  lofty  nature,  might  have  entitled  him  to  a 
place,  not  merely  at  our  festival,  but  among  the  peers 
of  Pandemonium. 

There  was  a  modern  philanthropist,  who  had  become 
so  deeply  sensible  of  the  calamities  of  thousands  and 
millions  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  of  the  impracti- 
cableness  of  any  general  measures  for  their  relief,  that 
he  had  no  heart  to  do  what  little  good  lay  immediately 
within  his  power,  but  contented  himself  with  being 
miserable  for  sympathy.  Near  him  sat  a  gentleman 
in  a  predicament  hitherto  unprecedented,  but  of  which 
the  present  epoch,  probably,  affords  numerous  examples. 
Ever  since  he  was  of  capacity  to  read  a  newspaper,  this 
person  had  prided  himself  on  his  consistent  adherence 
to  one  political  party,  but,  in  the  confusion  of  these 
latter  days,  had  got  bewildered,  and  knew  not  where- 
abouts his  party  was.  This  wretched  condition,  so 
morally  desolate  and  disheartening  to  a  man  who  has 
long  accustomed  himself  to  merge  his  individuality  in 
the  mass  of  a  great  body,  can  only  be  conceived  by 


54     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

such  as  have  experienced  it.  His  next  companion  was 
a  popular  orator  who  had  lost  his  voice,  and  —  as  it  was 
pretty  much  all  that  he  had  to  lose  —  had  fallen  into 
a  state  of  hopeless  melancholy.  The  table  was  like- 
wise graced  by  two  of  the  gentler  sex  —  one,  a  half- 
starved,  consumptive  seamstress,  the  representative  of 
thousands  just  as  wretched;  the  other,  a  woman  of 
unemployed  energy,  who  found  herself  in  the  world 
with  nothing  to  achieve,  nothing  to  enjoy,  and  nothing 
even  to  suffer.  She  had,  therefore,  driven  herself  to 
the  verge  of  madness  by  dark  broodings  over  the 
wrongs  of  her  sex,  and  its  exclusion  from  a  proper  field 
of  action.  The  roll  of  guests  being  thus  complete,  a 
side-table  had  been  set  for  three  or  four  disappointed 
office-seekers,  with  hearts  as  sick  as  death,  whom  the 
stewards  had  admitted,  partly  because  their  calamities 
really  entitled  them  to  entrance  here,  and  partly  that 
they  were  in  especial  need  of  a  good  dinner.  There 
was  likewise  a  homeless  dog,  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  licking  up  the  crumbs  and  gnawing  the  fragments 
of  the  feast  —  such  a  melancholy  cur  as  one  sometimes 
sees  about  the  streets,  without  a  master  and  willing  to 
follow  the  first  that  will  accept  his  service. 

In  their  own  way,  these  were  as  wretched  a  set  of 
people  as  ever  had  assembled  at  the  festival.  There 
they  sat,  with  the  veiled  skeleton  of  the  founder,  hold- 
ing aloft  the  cypress  wreath,  at  one  end  of  the  table ; 
and  at  the  other,  wrapt  in  furs,  the  withered  figure  of 
Gervayse  Hastings,  stately,  calm,  and  cold,  impressing 
the  company  with  awe,  yet  so  little  interesting  their 
sympathy,  that  he  might  have  vanished  into  thin 
air,  without  their  once  exclaiming — "Whither  is  he 
gone  ? " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  philanthropist,  addressing  the  old 
man,  "you  have  been  so  long  a  guest  at  this  annual 
festival,  and  have  thus  been  conversant  with  so  many 
varieties  of  human  affliction,  that,  not  improbably,  you 
have  thence  derived  some  great  and  important  lessons. 
How  blessed  were  your  lot,  could  you  reveal  a  secret  by 
which  all  this  mass  of  woe  might  be  removed !  " 


THE   CHRISTMAS   BANQUET        55 

"  I  know  of  but  one  misfortune,"  answered  Gervayse 
Hastings,  quietly,  "  and  that  is  my  own." 

"Your  own!"  rejoined  the  philanthropist.  "And, 
looking  back  on  your  serene  and  prosperous  life,  how 
can  you  claim  to  be  the  sole  unfortunate  of  the  human 
race?" 

"  You  will  not  understand  it,"  replied  Gervayse  Has- 
tings, feebly,  and  with  a  singular  inefficiency  of  pronun- 
ciation, and  sometimes  putting  one  word  for  another. 
"  None  have  understood  it  —  not  even  those  who  experi- 
ence the  like.  It  is  a  chilliness  —  a  want  of  earnestness 
—  a  feeling  as  if  what  should  be  my  heart  were  a  thing 
of  vapor  —  a  haunting  perception  of  unreality  !  Thus 
seeming  to  possess  all  that  other  men  have  —  all  that 
men  aim  at  —  I  have  really  possessed  nothing,  neither 
joy  nor  griefs.  All  things  —  all  persons  —  as  was  truly 
said  to  me  at  this  table  long  and  long  ago  —  have  been 
like  shadows  flickering  on  the  wall.  It  was  so  with  my 
wife  and  children  —  with  those  who  seemed  my  friends ; 
it  is  so  with  yourselves,  whom  I  see  now  before  me. 
Neither  have  I  myself  any  real  existence,  but  am  a 
shadow  like  the  rest !  " 

"  And  how  is  it  with  your  views  of  a  future  life  ? " 
inquired  the  speculative  clergyman. 

"  Worse  than  with  you,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  hollow 
and  feeble  tone ;  "  for  I  cannot  conceive  it  earnestly 
enough  to  feel  either  hope  or  fear.  Mine  —  mine  is  the 
wretchedness  !  This  cold  heart — this  unreal  life !  Ah  ! 
it  grows  colder  still." 

It  so  chanced,  that  at  this  juncture  the  decayed  liga- 
ments of  the  skeleton  gave  way,  and  the  dry  bones  fell 
together  in  a  heap,  thus  causing  the  dusty  wreath  of 
cypress  to  drop  upon  the  table.  The  attention  of  the 
company  being  thus  diverted,  for  a  single  instant,  from 
Gervayse  Hastings,  they  perceived,  on  turning  again 
towards  him,  that  the  old  man  had  undergone  a  change. 
His  shadow  had  ceased  to  flicker  on  the  wall. 


"  Well,  Rosina,  what  is  your  criticism  ? "  asked  Rod- 
erick, as  he  rolled  up  the  manuscript. 


A 


56     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  Frankly,  your  success  is  by  no  means  complete," 
replied  she.  "  It  is  true,  I  have  an  idea  of  the  charac- 
ter you  endeavor  to  describe ;  but  it  is  rather  by  dint 
of  my  own  thought  than  your  expression." 

"That  is  unavoidable,"  observed  the  sculptor,  "be- 
cause the  characteristics  are  all  negative.  If  Gervayse 
Hastings  could  have  imbibed  one  human  grief  at  the 
gloomy  banquet,  the  tasjc  of  describing  him  would  have 
been  infinitely  easier/  Of  such  persons  —  and  we  do 
meet  with  these  moral  monsters  now  and  then  —  it  is 
difficult  to  conceive  how  they  came  to  exist  here,  or 
what  there  is  in  them  capable  of  existence  hereafter. 
They  seem  to  be  on  the  outside  of  everything ;  and 
nothing  wearies  the  soul  more  than  an  attempt  to  com- 
prehend them  within  its  grasp."/ 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN   IMAGE 

ONE  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old  times  of  the 
town  of  Boston,  a  young  carver  in  wood,  well 
known  by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  contemplating  a 
large  oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  convert 
into  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  And  while  he  dis- 
cussed within  his  own  mind  what  sort  of  shape  or  simil- 
itude it  were  well  to  bestow  upon  this  excellent  piece 
of  timber,  there  came  into  Browne's  workshop  a  certain 
Captain  Hunnewell,  owner  and  commander  of  the  good 
brig  called  the  Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned  from 
her  first  voyage  to  Fayal. 

"  Ah  !  that  will  do,  Browne,  that  will  do  !  "  cried  the 
jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  rattan.  "  I 
bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figure-head  of 
the  Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweetest 
craft  that  ever  floated,  and  I  mean  to  decorate  her  prow 
with  the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of  man  can 
cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Browne,  you  are  the  fellow 
to  execute  it." 

"  You  give  me  more  credit  than  I  deserve,  Captain 
Hunnewell,"  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as  one  con- 
scious of  eminence  in  his  art.  "  But,  for  the  sake  of 
the  good  brig,  I  stand  ready  to  do  my  best.  And 
which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer  ?  Here  "  —  point- 
ing to  a  staring  half-length  figure,  in  a  white  wig  and 
scarlet  coat  —  here  is  an  excellent  model,  the  likeness 
of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the  valiant  Admiral  Ver- 
non.  Or,  if  you  prefer  a  female  figure,  what  say  you 
to  Britannia  with  the  trident  ? " 

"  All  very  fine,    Browne ;    all  very   fine,"    answered 

the  mariner.     "  But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever  swam 

the  ocean,  so  I  am  determined  she  shall  have  such  a 

figure-head  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his  life.     And 

57 


58     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

what  is.  more,  as  there  is  a  secret  in  the  matter,  you 
must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray  it." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Drowne,  marvelling,  however,  what 
possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference  to  an  affair 
so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection  of  all  the  world, 
as  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  "You  may  depend, 
captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
will  permit." 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the  button, 
and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a  tone,  that  it 
would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what  was  evidently 
intended  for  the  carver's  private  ear.  We  shall,  there- 
fore, take  the  opportunity  to  give  the  reader  a  few 
desirable  particulars  about  Drowne  himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have 
attempted,  —  in  a  very  humble  line,  it  is  true,  —  that 
art  in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many  names  already 
distinguished,  or  rising  to  distinction.  From  his  earliest 
boyhood,  he  had  exhibited  a  knack  —  for  it  would  be 
too  proud  a  word  to  call  it  genius  —  a  knack,  therefore, 
for  the  imitation  of  the  human  figure,  in  whatever  ma- 
terial came  most  readily  to  hand.  The  snows  of  a  New 
England  winter  had  often  supplied  him  with  a  species 
of  marble  as  dazzlingly  white,  at  least,  as  the  Parian  or 
the  Carrara,  and  if  less  durable,  yet  sufficiently  so  to 
correspond  with  any  claims  to  permanent  existence 
possessed  by  the  boy's  frozen  statues.  .Yet  they  won 
admiration  from  maturer  judges  than  his  schoolfellows, 
and  were,  indeed,  remarkably  clever,  though  destitute 
of  the  native  warmth  that  might  have  made  the  snow 
melt  beneath  his  hand.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  the 
young  man  adopted  pine  and  oak  as  eligible  materials 
for  the  display  of  his  skill,  which  now  began  to  bring 
him  a  return  of  solid  silver,  as  well  as  the  empty  praise 
that  had  been  an  apt  reward  enough  for  his  productions 
of  evanescent  snow.  He  became  noted  for  carving 
ornamental  pump-heads,  and  wooden  urns  for  gate- 
posts, and  decorations,  more  grotesque  than  fanciful, 
for  mantel-pieces.  No  apothecary  would  have  deemed 
himself  in  the  way  of  obtaining  custom,  without  setting 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN   IMAGE       59 

up  a  gilded  mortar,  if  not  a  head  of  Galen  or  Hippocra- 
tes, from  the  skilful  hand  of  Drowne.  But  the  great 
scope  of  his  business  lay  in  the  manufacture  of  figure- 
heads for  vessels.  Whether  it  were  the  monarch  him- 
self, or  some  famous  British  admiral  or  general,  or  the 
governor  of  the  province,  or  perchance  the  favorite 
daughter  of  the  ship-owner,  there  the  image  stood  above 
the  prow,  decked  out  in  gorgeous  colors,  magnificently 
gilded,  and  staring  the  whole  world  out  of  countenance, 
as  if  from  an  innate  consciousness  of  its  own  superiority. 
These  specimens  of  native  sculpture  had  crossed  the 
sea  in  all  directions,  and  been  not  ignobly  noticed 
among  the  crowded  shipping  of  the  Thames,  and 
wherever  else  the  hardy  mariners  of  New  England  had 
pushed  their  adventures.  It  must  be  confessed,  that  a 
family  likeness  pervaded  these  respectable  progeny  of 
Browne's  skill  —  that  the  benign  countenance  of  the 
king  resembled  those  of  his  subjects,  and  that  Miss 
Peggy  Hobart,  the  merchant's  daughter,  bore  a  re- 
markable similitude  to  Britannia,  Victory,  and  other 
ladies  of  the  allegoric  sisterhood ;  and,  finally,  that  they 
all  had  a  kind  of  wooden  aspect,  which  proved  an  inti- 
mate relationship  with  the  unshaped  blocks  of  timber 
in  the  carver's  workshop.  But,  at  least,  there  was  no 
inconsiderable  skill  of  hand,  nor  a  deficiency  of  any 
attribute  to  render  them  really  works  of  art,  except 
that  deep  quality,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which  be- 
stows life  upon  the  lifeless,  and  warmth  upon  the  cold, 
and  which,  had  it  been  present,  would  have  made 
Browne's  wooden  image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished  his 
instructions. 

"  And,  Browne,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  you  must 
lay  aside  all  other  business,  and  set  about  this  forth- 
with. And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in  first-rate 
style,  and  you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself." 

"Very  well,  captain,"  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a  sort  of 
smile  upon  his  visage.  "  Bepend  upon  it,  I  '11  do  my 
utmost  to  satisfy  you." 


60     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock,  who  were  wont  to  show 
their  love  for  the  arts  by  frequent  visits  to  Browne's 
workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden  images,  began 
to  be  sensible  of  a  mystery  in  the  carver's  conduct. 
Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime.  Sometimes,  as 
might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light  from  the  shop 
windows,  he  was  at  work  until  a  late  hour  of  the  even- 
ing ;  although  neither  knock  nor  voice,  on  such  occa- 
sions, could  gain  admittance  for  a  visitor  or  elicit  any 
word  of  response.  Nothing  remarkable,  however,  was 
observed  in  the  shop  at  those  hours  when  it  was  thrown 
open.  A  fine  piece  of  timber,  indeed,  which  Drowne 
was  known  to  have  reserved  for  some  work  of  especial 
dignity,  was  seen  to  be  gradually  assuming  shape.  What 
shape  it  was  destined  ultimately  to  take,  was  a  problem 
to  his  friends,  and  a  point  on  which  the  carver  himself 
preserved  a  rigid  silence.  But  day  after  day,  though 
Drowne  was  seldom  noticed  in  the  act  of  working  upon 
it,  this  rude  form  began  to  be  developed,  until  it  be- 
came evident  to  all  observers  that  a  female  figure  was 
growing  into  mimic  life.  At  each  new  visit  they  beheld 
a  larger  pile  of  wooden  chips,  and  a  nearer  approxima- 
tion to  something  beautiful.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hama- 
dryad of  the  oak  had  sheltered  herself  from  the 
unimaginative  world  within  the  heart  of  her  native  tree, 
and  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  remove  the  strange 
shapelessness  that  had  incrusted  her,  and  reveal  the 
grace  and  loveliness  of  a  divinity.  Imperfect  as  the  de- 
sign, the  attitude,  the  costume,  and  especially  the  face 
of  the  image  still  remained,  there  was  already  an  effect 
that  drew  the  eye  from  the  wooden  cleverness  of 
Drowne's  earlier  productions,  and  fixed  it  upon  the  tan- 
talizing mystery  of  this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a  young  man, 
and  a  resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to  visit  Drowne ; 
for  he  had  recognized  so  much  of  moderate  ability  in 
the  carver,  as  to  induce  him,  in  the  dearth  of  any  pro- 
fessional sympathy,  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  On 
entering  the  shop,  the  artist  glanced  at  the  inflexible 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN   IMAGE       61 

image  of  king,  commander,  dame,  and  allegory,  that 
stood  around  ;  on  the  best  of  which  might  have  been 
bestowed  the  questionable  praise,  that  it  looked  as  if  a 
living  man  had  here  been  changed  to  wood,  and  that 
not  only  the  physical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
part,  partook  of  the  stolid  transformation.  But  in  not 
a  single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the  wood  were  imbib- 
ing the  ethereal  essence  of  humanity.  What  a  wide 
distinction  is  here,  and  how  far  would  the  slightest 
portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  outvalued  the  utmost 
degree  of  the  former  ! 

"  My  friend  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  smiling  to  him- 
self, but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden  clever- 
ness that  so  invariably  distinguished  the  images,  "  you 
are  really  a  remarkable  person  !  I  have  seldom  met 
with  a  man,  in  your  line  of  business,  that  could  do  so 
much,  for  one  other  touch  might  make  this  figure  of 
General  Wolfe,  for  instance,  a  breathing  and  intelligent 
human  creature." 

"  You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  praising  me 
highly,  Mr.  Copley,"  answered  Drowne,  turning  his 
back  upon  Wolfe's  image  in  apparent  disgust.  "  But 
there  has  come  a  light  into  my  mind.  I  know,  what 
you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch,  which  you  speak 
of  as  deficient,  is  the  only  one  that  would  be  truly 
valuable,  and  that,  without  it,  these  works  of  mine  are 
no  better  than  worthless  abortions.  There  is  the  same 
difference  between  them  and  the  works  of  an  inspired 
artist,  as  between  a  sign-post  daub  and  one  of  your  best 
pictures." 

"  This  is  strange  !  "  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in  the 
face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a  singular 
depth  of  intelligence,  though,  hitherto,  it  had  not  given 
him  greatly  the  advantage  over  his  own  family  of 
wooden  images.  "  What  has  come  over  you  ?  How  is 
it  that,  possessing  the  idea  which  you  have  now  uttered, 
you  should  produce  only  such  works  as  these  ? " 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the  sense  of 
deficiency,  so  rare  in  a  merely  mechanical  character, 


62     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

must  surely  imply  a  genius,  the  tokens  of  which  had 
been  overlooked.  But  no ;  there  was  not  a  trace  of  it. 
He  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  his  eyes  chanced  to 
fall  upon  a  half-developed  figure  which  lay  in  a  corner 
of  the  workshop,  surrounded  by  scattered  chips  of  oak. 
It  arrested  him  at  once. 

"  What  is  here  ?  Who  has  done  this  ? "  he  broke  out, 
after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonishment  for  an 
instant.  "  Here  is  the  divine,  the  life-giving  touch ! 
What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning  this  wood  to  arise  and 
live  ?  Whose  work  is  this  ? " 

"  No  man's  work,"  replied  Drowne.  "  The  figure 
lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my  business  to 
find  it." 

"  Drowne,"  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the  carver 
fervently  by  the  hand,  "  you  are  a  man  of  genius !  " 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  backward 
from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bending  over  the 
half -created  shape,  and  stretching  forth  his  arms  as  if 
he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his  heart; 
while,  had  such  a  miracle  been  possible,  his  countenance 
expressed  passion  enough  to  communicate  warmth  and 
sensibility  to  the  lifeless  oak. 

"  Strange  enough !  "  said  the  artist  to  himself.  "  Who 
would  have  looked  for  a  modern  Pygmalion  in  the 
person  of  a  Yankee  mechanic !  " 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward 
presentment ;  so  that,  as  in  the  cloud-shapes  around 
the  western  sun,  the  observer  rather  felt,  or  was  led  to 
imagine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by  it.  Day 
by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater  precision, 
and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline  into  distincter 
grace  and  beauty.  The  general  design  was  now  obvious 
to  the  common  eye.  It  was  a  female  figure,  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  foreign  dress ;  the  gown  being  laced 
over  the  bosom,  and  opening  in  front,  so  as  to  disclose 
a  skirt  or  petticoat,  the  folds  and  inequalities  of  which 
were  admirably  represented  in  the  oaken  substance. 
She  wore  a  hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and  abun- 
dantly laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew  in  the 


DROWNE'S   WOODEN   IMAGE       63 

rude  soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all  their 
fanciful  luxuriance,  had  a  natural  truth  that  it  seemed 
impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination  to  have 
attained  without  copying  from  real  prototypes.  There 
were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress,  such  as  a 
fan,  a  pair  of  ear-rings,  a  chain  about  the  neck,  a  watch 
in  the  bosom,  and  a  ring  upon  the  finger,  all  of  which 
would  have  been  deemed  beneath  the  dignity  of  sculp- 
ture. They  were  put  on,  however,  with  as  much  taste 
as  a  lovely  woman  might  have  shown  in  her  attire,  and 
could  therefore  have  shocked  none  but  a  judgment 
spoiled  by  artistic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect;  but,  gradually,  by  a 
magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  brightened 
through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of  light  gleam- 
ing forth  from  within  the  solid  oak.  The  face  became 
alive.  It  was  a  beautiful,  though  not  precisely  regu- 
lar, and  somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but  with  a  certain 
piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth  which,  of  all  ex- 
pressions, would  have  seemed  the  most  impossible  to 
throw  over  a  wooden  countenance.  And  now,  so  far  as 
carving  went,  this  wonderful  production  was  complete. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed  a 
single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver's  workshop,  "  if 
this  work  were  in  marble,  it  would  make  you  famous  at 
once ;  nay,  I  would  almost  affirm  that  it  would  make  an 
era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an  antique  statue,  yet 
as  real  as  any  lovely  woman  whom  one  meets  at  a  fire- 
side or  in  the  street.  But  I  trust  you  do  not  mean  to 
desecrate  this  exquisite  creature  with  paint,  like  those 
staring  kings  and  admirals  yonder  ?  " 

"  Not  paint  her  ?  "  exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell,  who 
stood  by ;  "  not  paint  the  figure-head  of  the  Cynosure ! 
And  what  sort  of  a  figure  should  I  cut  in  a  foreign  port, 
with  such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick  as  this  over  my  prow  ? 
She  must,  and  she  shall,  be  painted  to  the  life,  from  the 
topmost  flower  in  her  hat  down  to  the  silver  spangles  on 
her  slippers." 

"  Mr.  Copley,"  said  Drowne,  quietly,  "  I  know  nothing 
of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the  sculptor's  rules 


64     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

of  art.  But  of  this  wooden  image  —  this  work  of  my 
hands  —  this  creature  of  my  heart," — and  here  his 
voice  faltered  and  choked,  in  a  very  singular  manner,  — 
"  of  this  —  of  her  —  I  may  say  that  I  know  something. 
A  well-spring  of  inward  wisdom  gushed  within  me,  as  I 
wrought  upon  the  oak  with  my  whole  strength,  and  soul, 
and  faith.  Let  others  do  what  they  may  with  marble, 
and  adopt  what  rules  they  choose.  If  I  can  produce  my 
desired  effect  by  painted  wood,  those  rules  are  not  for 
me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  disregard  them." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  genius !  "  muttered  Copley  to  him- 
self. "  How  otherwise  should  this  carver  feel  himself 
entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make  me  ashamed  of 
quoting  them ! " 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw  that 
expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a  spiritual  sense, 
as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining,  was  the  secret  of 
the  life  that  had  been  breathed  into  this  block  of  wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that  marked  all 
his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  proceeded  to 
paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper  colors,  and  the 
countenance  with  nature's  red  and  white.  When  all  was 
finished,  he  threw  open  his  workshop,  and  admitted  the 
townspeople  to  behold  what  he  had  done.  Most  per- 
sons, at  their  first  entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove  their 
hats,  and  pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to  the  richly 
dressed  and  beautiful  young  lady,  who  seemed  to  stand 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken  chips  and  shavings 
scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came  a  sensation  of  fear ; 
as  if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like  humanity, 
she  must  therefore  be  something  preternatural.  There 
was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable  air  and  expression  that 
might  reasonably  induce  the  query  —  who  and  from 
what  sphere  this  daughter  of  the  oak  should  be.  The 
strange  rich  flowers  of  Eden  on  her  head ;  the  complex- 
ion, so  much  deeper  and  more  brilliant  than  those  of  our 
native  beauties  ;  the  foreign,  as  it  seemed,  and  fantastic 
garb,  yet  not  too  fantastic  to  be  worn  decorously  in  the 
street;  the  delicately  wrought  embroidery  of  the  skirt; 
the  broad  gold  chain  about  her  neck ;  the  curious  ring 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN    IMAGE       65 

upon  her  finger;  the  fan,  so  exquisitely  sculptured  in 
open  work,  and  painted  to  resemble  pearl  and  ebony  ;  — • 
where  could  Drowne,  in  his  sober  walk  of  life,  have  be- 
held the  vision  here  so  matchlessly  embodied  !  And 
then  her  face !  In  the  dark  eyes  and  around  the  volup- 
tuous mouth,  there  played  a  look  made  up  of  pride, 
coquetry,  and  a  gleam  of  mirthfulness,  which  impressed 
Copley  with  the  idea  that  the  image  was  secretly  enjoy- 
ing the  perplexing  admiration  of  himself  and  other  be- 
holders. 

"And  will  you,"  said  he  to  the  carver,  "permit  this 
master-piece  to  become  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel  ? 
Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of  Britannia,  —  it 
will  answer  his  purpose  far  better,  —  and  send  this  fairy 
queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught  I  know,  it  may  bring 
you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"I  have  not  wrought  it  for  money,"  said  Drowne. 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this ! "  thought  Copley. 
"  A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making  his 
fortune !  He  has  gone  mad  ;  and  thence  has  come  this 
gleam  of  genius." 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Drowne's  lunacy,  if 
credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been  seen 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady,  and  gazing  with 
a  lover's  passionate  ardor  into  the  face  that  his  own 
hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day  hinted  that 
it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  if  an  evil  spirit  were 
allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful  form,  and  seduce  the 
carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally,  that,  after  a  few 
days  of  exhibition,  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or  a 
child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with  its 
aspect.  Had  the  story  of  Drowne's  wooden  image 
ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been  prolonged  for 
many  years,  by  the  reminiscences  of  those  who  looked 
upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and  saw  nothing  else  so  beau- 
tiful in  after  life.  But  the  town  was  now  astounded  by 
an  event,  the  narrative  of  which  has  formed  itself  into 
one  of  the  most  singular  legends  that  are  yet  to  be  met 


66     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

with  in  the  traditionary  chimney-corners  of  the  New 
England  metropolis,  where  old  men  and  women  sit 
dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wag  their  heads  at  the 
dreamers  of  the  present  and  the  future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of  the 
Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the  com- 
mander of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue  from  his 
residence  in  Hanover  street  He  was  stylishly  dressed 
in  a  blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold  lace  at  the  seams 
and  button-holes,  an  embroidered  scarlet  waistcoat,  a 
triangular  hat  with  a  loop  and  broad  binding  of  gold, 
and  wore  a  silver-hilted  hanger  at  his  side.  But  the 
good  captain  might  have  been  arrayed  in  the  robes  of  a 
prince  or  the  rags  of  a  beggar,  without  in  either  case 
attracting  notice,  while  obscured  by  such  a  companion 
as  now  leaned  on  his  arm.  The  people  in  the  street 
started,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  either  leaped  aside  from 
their  path,  or  stood  as  if  transfixed  to  wood  or  marble  in 
astonishment. 

"Do  you  see  it?  —  do  you  see  it?"  cried  one,  with 
tremulous  eagerness.  "  It  is  the  very  same  !  " 

"  The  same  ?  "  answered  another,  who  had  arrived  in 
town  only  the  night  before.  "  Who  do  you  mean  ?  I 
see  only  a  sea-captain  in  his  shore-going  clothes,  and  a 
young  lady  in  a  foreign  habit,  with  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is  as  fair  and 
bright  a  damsel  as  my  eyes  have  looked  on  this  many  a 
day ! " 

"Yes;  the  same! — the  very  same!"  repeated  the 
other.  "  Browne's  wooden  image  has  come  to  life !  " 

Here  was  a  miracle  indeed !  Yet,  illuminated  by 
the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade  of 
the  houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering  lightly  in  the 
morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along  the  street. 
It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the  shape,  the  garb,  and 
the  face,  which  the  townspeople  had  so  recently  thronged 
to  see  and  admire.  Not  a  rich  flower  upon  her  head, 
not  a  single  leaf,  but  had  had  its  prototype  in  Browne's 
wooden  workmanship,  although  now  their  fragile  grace 
had  become  flexible,  and  was  shaken  by  every  footstep 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN    IMAGE       67 

that  the  wearer  made.  The  broad  gold  chain  upon  the 
neck  was  identical  with  the  one  represented  on  the 
image,  and  glistened  with  the  motion  imparted  by 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  bosom  which  it  decorated.  A 
real  diamond  sparkled  on  her  finger.  In  her  right  hand 
she  bore  a  pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she  nourished 
with  a  fantastic  and  bewitching  coquetry,  that  was  like- 
wise expressed  in  all  her  movements,  as  well  as  in  the 
style  of  her  beauty  and  the  attire  that  so  well  harmonized 
with  it.  The  face,  with  its  brilliant  depth  of  complexion, 
had  the  same  piquancy  of  mirthful  mischief  that  was 
fixed  upon  the  countenance  of  the  image,  but  which  was 
here  varied,  and  continually  shifting,  yet  always  essen- 
tially the  same,  like  the  sunny  gleam  upon  a  bubbling 
fountain.  On  the  whole,  there  was  something  so  airy 
and  yet  so  real  in  the  figure,  and  withal  so  perfectly  did 
it  represent  Drowne's  image,  that  people  knew  not 
whether  to  suppose  the  magic  wood  etherealized  into  a 
spirit,  or  warmed  and  softened  into  an  actual  woman. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  muttered  a  Puritan  of  the  old 
stamp.  "  Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil ;  and 
doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is  a  party  to  the 
bargain." 

"  And  I,"  said  a  young  man  who  overheard  him, 
"  would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim,  for  the 
liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips." 

"And  so  would  I,"  said  Copley  the  painter,  "for  the 
privilege  of  taking  her  picture."  " 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might 
be,  still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded  from 
Hanover  street  through  some  of  the  cross-lanes  that 
make  this  portion  of  the  town  so  intricate,  to  Ann 
street,  thence  into  Dock-square,  and  so  downward  to 
Drowne's  shop,  which  stood  just  on  the  water's  edge. 
The  crowd  still  followed,  gathering  volume  as  it  rolled 
along.  Never  had  a  modern  miracle  occurred  in  such 
broad  daylight,  nor  in  the  presence  of  such  a  multitude 
of  witnesses.  The  airy  image,  as  if  conscious  that  she 
was  the  object  of  the  murmurs  and  disturbance  that 
swelled  behind  her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flus- 


68     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

tered,  yet  still  in  a  manner  consistent  with  the  light 
vivacity  and  sportive  mischief  that  were  written  in  her 
countenance.  She  was  observed  to  flutter  her  fan  with 
such  vehement  rapidity,  that  the  elaborate  delicacy  of 
its  workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained  broken  in 
her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Browne's  door,  while  the  captain  threw  it 
open,  the  marvellous  apparition  paused  an  instant  on  the 
threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude  of  the  image,  and 
casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance  of  sunny  coquetry 
which  all  remembered  on  the  face  of  the  oaken  lady. 
She  and  her  cavalier  then  disappeared. 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

"  The  world  looks  darker,  now  that  she  has  vanished," 
said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far  back  as 
witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted  that  our  fore- 
fathers would  have  thought  it  a  pious  deed  to  burn  the 
daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 

"  If  she  be  other  than  a  bubble  of  the  elements,"  ex- 
claimed Copley,  "  I  must  look  upon  her  face  again  !  " 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop  ;  and  there,  in  her 
usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him,  as  it  might 
seem,  with  the  very  same  expression  of  mirthful  mis- 
chief that  had  been  the  farewell  look  of  the  appari- 
tion when,  but  a  moment  before,  she  turned  her  face 
towards  the  crowd.  The  carver  stood  beside  his  crea- 
tion, mending  the  beautiful  fan,  which  by  some  acci- 
dent was  broken  in  her  hand.  But  there  was  no  longer 
any  motion  in  the  lifelike  image,  nor  any  real  woman 
in  the  workshop,  nor  even  the  witchcraft  of  a  sunny 
shadow,  that  might  have  deluded  people's  eyes  as  it 
flitted  along  the  street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too,  had 
vanished.  His  hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  however,  were 
audible  on  the  other  side  of  a  door  that  opened  upon 
the  water. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  stern  sheets,  my  lady,"  said  the 
gallant  captain.  "  Come,  bear  a  hand,  you  lubbers,  and 
set  us  on  board  in  the  turning  of  a  minute-glass." 


BROWNE'S   WOODEN    IMAGE       69 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  with  a  smile  of  intelligence, 
"  you  have  been  a  truly  fortunate  man.  What  painter 
or  statuary  ever  had  such  a  subject!  No  wonder  that 
she  inspired  a  genius  into  you,  and  first  created  the  artist 
who  afterwards  created  her  image." 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a  visage  that  bore  the 
traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of  imagination 
and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating  it,  had  departed. 
He  was  again  the  mechanical  carver  that  he  had  been 
known  to  be  all  his  lifetime. 

"  I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Copley," 
said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "  This  image  ! 
Can  it  have  been  my  work?  Well — I  have  wrought 
it  in  a  kind  of  a  dream ;  and  now  that  I  am  broad 
awake,  I  must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure  of 
Admiral  Vernon." 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and  com- 
pleted it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from  which  he  was 
never  known  afterwards  to  deviate.  He  followed  his 
business  industriously  for  many  years,  acquired  a  com- 
petence, and,  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  attained  to  a 
dignified  station  in  the  church,  being  remembered  in 
records  and  traditions  as  Deacon  Drowne,  the  carver. 
One  of  his  productions,  an  Indian  chief,  gilded  all 
over,  stood  during  the  better  part  of  a  century  on  the 
cupola  of  the  Province  House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of 
those  who  looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun. 
Another  work  of  the  good  deacon's  hand  —  a  reduced 
likeness  of  friend  Captain  Hunnewell,  holding  a  tele- 
scope and  quadrant  —  may  be  seen,  to  this  day,  at  the 
corner  of  Broad  and  State  streets,  serving  in  the  useful 
capacity  of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a  nautical  instrument 
maker.  We  know  not  how  to  account  for  the  inferiority 
of  this  quaint  old  figure,  as  compared  with  the  recorded 
excellence  of  the  Oaken  Lady,  unless  on  the  supposi- 
tion, that  in  every  human  spirit  there  is  imagination, 
sensibility,  creative  power,  genius,  which,  according  to 
circumstances,  may  either  be  developed  in  this  world, 


7o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

or  shrouded  in  a  mask  of  dulness  until  another  state  of 
being.  To  our  friend  Drowne,  there  came  a  brief  sea- 
son of  excitement,  kindled  by  love.  It  rendered  him  a 
genius  for  that  one  occasion,  but,  quenched  in  disap- 
pointment, left  him  again  the  mechanical  carver  in 
wood,  without  the  power  even  of  appreciating  the  work 
that  his  own  hands  had  wrought.  Yet  who  can  doubt, 
that  the  very  highest  state  to  which  a  human  spirit  can 
attain,  in  its  loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest  and  most 
natural  state,  and  that  Drowne  was  more  consistent 
with  himself  when  he  wrought  the  admirable  figure  of 
the  mysterious  lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated  a  whole 
progeny  of  blockheads  ? 

There  was  a  rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period,  that 
a  young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some  occasion  of 
political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had  fled  from  her  home 
in  Fayal,  and  put  herself  under  the  protection  of  Cap- 
tain Hunnewell,  on  board  of  whose  vessel,  and  at  whose 
residence,  she  was  sheltered  until  a  change  of  affairs. 
This  fair  stranger  must  have  been  the  original  of  Drowne's 
Wooden  Image. 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE 

A  GRAVE  figure,  with  a  pair  of  mysterious  spectacles 
on  his  nose  and  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  was  seated 
at  a  desk,  in  the  corner  of  a  metropolitan  office.  The 
apartment  was  fitted  up  with  a  counter,  and  furnished 
with  an  oaken  cabinet  and  a  chair  or  two,  in  simple  and 
businesslike  style.  Around  the  walls  were  stuck  ad- 
vertisements of  articles  lost,  or  articles  wanted,  or  articles 
to  be  disposed  of ;  in  one  or  another  of  which  classes 
were  comprehended  nearly  all  the  conveniences,  or  other- 
wise, that  the  imagination  of  man  has  contrived.  The 
interior  of  the  room  was  thrown  into  shadow,  partly  by 
the  tall  edifices  that  rose  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  and  partly  by  the  immense  show-bills  of  blue  and 
crimson  paper,  that  were  expanded  over  each  of  the  three 
windows.  Undisturbed  by  the  tramp  of  feet,  the  rattle 
of  wheels,  the  hum  of  voices,  the  shout  of  the  city-crier, 
the  scream  of  the  news-boys,  and  other  tokens  of  the 
multitudinous  life  that  surged  along  in  front  of  the  office, 
the  figure  at  the  desk  pored  diligently  over  a  folio  vol- 
ume, of  ledgerlike  size  and  aspect.  He  looked  like  the 
spirit  of  a  record  —  the  soul  of  his  own  great  volume  — 
made  visible  in  mortal  shape. 

But  scarcely  an  instant  elapsed  without  the  appear- 
ance at  the  door  of  some  individual  from  the  busy  popu- 
lation whose  vicinity  was  manifested  by  so  much  buzz, 
and  clatter,  and  outcry.  Now,  it  was  a  thriving  me- 
chanic, in  quest  of  a  tenement  that  should  come  within 
his  moderate  means  of  rent;  now  a  ruddy  Irish  girl 
from  the  banks  of  Killarney  wandering  from  kitchen  to 
kitchen  of  our  land,  while  her  heart  still  hung  in  the 
peat-smoke  of  her  native  cottage ;  now,  a  single  gentle- 
man, looking  out  for  economical  board ;  and  now  —  for 


72     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

this  establishment  offered  an  epitome  of  worldly  pur- 
suits —  it  was  a  faded  beauty  inquiring  for  her  lost 
bloom ;  or  Peter  Schlemihl  for  his  lost  shadow ;  or  an 
author,  of  ten  years'  standing,  for  his  vanished  reputa- 
tion ;  or  a  moody  man  for  yesterday's  sunshine. 

At  the  next  lifting  of  the  latch  there  entered  a  person 
with  his  hat  awry  upon  his  head,  his  clothes  perversely 
ill-suited  to  his  form,  his  eyes  staring  in  directions  oppo- 
site to  their  intelligence,  and  a  certain  odd  unsuitable- 
ness  pervading  his  whole  figure.  Wherever  he  might 
chance  to  be,  whether  in  palace,  or  cottage,  church  or 
market,  on  land  or  sea,  or  even  at  his  own  fireside,  he 
must  have  worn  the  characteristic  expression  of  a  man 
out  of  his  right  place. 

"  This,"  inquired  he,  putting  his  question  in  the  form 
of  an  assertion,  "  this  is  the  Central  Intelligence  Office  ? " 

"  Even  so,"  answered  the  figure  at  the  desk,  turning 
another  leaf  of  his  volume;  he  then  looked  the  appli- 
cant in  the  face,  and  said  briefly,  —  "Your  business?  " 

"  I  want,"  said  the  latter,  with  tremulous  earnestness, 
"  a  place !  " 

"A  place  !  —  and  of  what  nature?"  asked  the  Intel- 
ligencer. "  There  are  many  vacant,  or  soon  to  be  so, 
some  of  which  will  probably  suit,  since  they  range  from 
that  of  a  footman  up  to  a  seat  at  the  council-board  or 
in  the  cabinet,  or  a  throne,  or  a  presidential  chair." 

The  stranger  stood  pondering  before  the  desk,  with 
an  unquiet,  dissatisfied  air  —  a  dull,  vague  pain  of  heart, 
expressed  by  a  slight  contortion  of  the  brow  —  an  ear- 
nestness of  glance,  that  asked  and  expected  yet  continu- 
ally wavered,  as  if  distrusting.  In  short,  he  evidently 
wanted,  not  in  a  physical  or  intellectual  sense,  but  with 
an  urgent  moral  necessity  that  is  the  hardest  of  all 
things  to  satisfy,  since  it  knows  not  its  own  object. 

"  Ah,  you  mistake  me !  "  said  he  at  length,  with  a 
gesture  of  nervous  impatience.  "  Either  of  the  places 
you  mention,  indeed,  might  answer  my  purpose  —  or, 
more  probably,  none  of  them.  I  want  my  place!  —  my 
own  place  !  —  my  true  place  in  the  world !  —  my  proper 
sphere  !  —  my  thing  to  do,  which  Nature  intended  me 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE       73 

to  perform  when  she  fashioned  me  thus  awry,  and  which 
I  have  vainly  sought,  all  my  lifetime !  Whether  it  be 
a  footman's  duty,  or  a  king's,  is  of  little  consequence, 
so  it  be  naturally  mine.  Can  you  help  me  here  ?  " 

"  I  will  enter  your  application,"  answered  the  Intelli- 
gencer, at  the  same  time  writing  a  few  lines  in  his 
volume.  "  But  to  undertake  such  a  business,  I  tell  you 
frankly,  is  quite  apart  from  the  ground  covered  by  my 
official  duties.  Ask  for  something  specific,  and  it  may 
doubtless  be  negotiated  for  you,  on  your  compliance  with 
the  conditions.  But  were  I  to  go  further,  I  should  have 
the  whole  population  of  the  city  upon  my  shoulders ;  since 
far  the  greater  proportion  of  them  are,  more  or  less,  in 
your  predicament." 

The  applicant  sank  into  a  fit  of  despondency,  and 
passed  out  of  the  door  without  again  lifting  his  eyes ; 
and,  if  he  died  of  the  disappointment,  he  was  probably 
buried  in  the  wrong  tomb ;  inasmuch  as  the  fatality  of 
such  people  never  deserts  them,  and,  whether  alive  or 
dead,  they  are  invariably  out  of  place. 

Almost  immediately,  another  foot  was  heard  on  the 
threshold.  A  youth  entered  hastily,  and  threw  a  glance 
around  the  office  to  ascertain  whether  the  man  of  intelli- 
gence was  alone.  He  then  approached  close  to  the  desk, 
blushed  like  a  maiden,  and  seemed  at  a  loss  how  to 
broach  his  business. 

"You  come  upon  an  affair  of  the  heart,"  said  the 
official  personage,  looking  into  him  through  his  mysteri- 
ous spectacles.  "  State  it  in  as  few  words  as  may  be." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  youth.  "  I  have  a  heart 
to  dispose  of." 

"  You  seek  an  exchange  ? "  said  the  Intelligencer. 
"  Foolish  youth,  why  not  be  contented  with  your  own  ?  " 

"  Because,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  losing  his  em- 
barrassment in  a  passionate  glow,  —  "  because  my  heart 
burns  me  with  an  intolerable  fire ;  it  tortures  me  all  day 
long  with  yearnings  for  I  know  not  what,  and  feverish 
throbbings,  and  the  pangs  of  a  vague  sorrow ;  and  it 
awakens  me  in  the  night-time  with  a  quake,  when  there 
is  nothing  to  be  feared !  I  cannot  endure  it  any  longer. 


74     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

It  were  wiser  to  throw  away  such  a  heart,  even  if  it 
brings  me  nothing  in  return  !  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  man  of  office,  making  an 
entry  in  his  volume.  "  Your  affair  will  be  easily  trans- 
acted. This  species  of  brokerage  makes  no  inconsider- 
able part  of  my  business ;  and  there  is  always  a  large 
assortment  of  the  article  to  select  from.  Here,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  comes  a  pretty  fair  sample." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  door  was  gently  and  slowly 
thrust  ajar,  affording  a  glimpse  of  the  slender  figure  of  a 
young  girl,  who,  as  she  timidly  entered,  seemed  to  bring 
the  light  and  cheerfulness  of  the  outer  atmosphere  into 
the  somewhat  gloomy  apartment.  We  know  not  her 
errand  there ;  nor  can  we  reveal  whether  the  young  man 
gave  up  his  heart  into  her  custody.  If  so,  the  arrange- 
ment was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  in  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred,  where  the  parallel  sensibilities 
of  a  similar  age,  importunate  affections,  and  the  easy 
satisfaction  of  characters  not  deeply  conscious  of 
themselves,  supply  the  place  of  any  profounder 
sympathy. 

Not  always,  however,  was  the  agency  of  the  passions 
and  affections  an  office  of  so  little  trouble.  It  happened 
—  rarely,  indeed,  in  proportion  to  the  cases  that  came 
under  an  ordinary  rule,  but  still  it  did  happen  —  that  a 
heart  was  occasionally  brought  hither,  of  such  exquisite 
material,  so  delicately  attempered,  and  so  curiously 
wrought,  that  no  other  heart  could  be  found  to  match  it. 
It  might  almost  be  considered  a  misfortune,  in  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  to  be  the  possessor  of  such  a  diamond  of  the 
purest  water ;  since  in  any  reasonable  probability,  it  could 
only  be  exchanged  for  an  ordinary  pebble,  or  a  bit  of  cun- 
ningly manufactured  glass,  or,  at  least,  for  a  jewel  of 
native  richness,  but  ill-set,  or  with  some  fatal  flaw,  or  an 
earthy  vein  running  through  its  central  lustre.  To  choose 
another  figure,  it  is  sad  that  hearts  which  have  their  well- 
spring  in  the  infinite,  and  contain  inexhaustible  sympa- 
thies, should  ever  be  doomed  to  pour  themselves  into 
shallow  vessels,  and  thus  lavish  their  rich  affections  on 
the  ground.  Strange,  that  the  finer  and  deeper  nature, 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE      75 

whether  in  man  or  woman,  while  possessed  of  every 
other  delicate  instinct,  should  so  often  lack  that  most 
invaluable  one,  of  preserving  itself  from  contamination 
with  what  is  of  a  baser  kind !  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  the 
spiritual  fountain  is  kept  pure  by  a  wisdom  within  itself, 
and  sparkles  into  the  light  of  heaven,  without  a  stain 
from  the  earthy  strata  through  which  it  had  gushed 
upward.  And  sometimes,  even  here  on  earth,  the  pure 
mingles  with  the  pure,  and  the  inexhaustible  is  recom- 
pensed with  the  infinite.  But  these  miracles,  though  he 
should  claim  the  credit  of  them,  are  far  beyond  the  scope 
of  such  a  superficial  agent  in  human  affairs,  as  the  figure 
in  the  mysterious  spectacles. 

Again  the  door  was  open,  admitting  the  bustle  of  the 
city  with  a  fresher  reverberation  into  the  Intelligence 
Office.  Now  entered  a  man  of  woe-begone  and  down- 
cast look ,  it  was  such  an  aspect  as  if  he  had  lost  the 
very  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  had  traversed  all  the  world 
over,  searching  in  the  dust  of  the  highways,  and  along 
the  shady  footpaths,  and  beneath  the  leaves  of  the 
forest,  and  among  the  sands  of  the  seashore,  in  hopes 
to  recover  it  again.  He  had  bent  an  anxious  glance 
along  the  pavement  of  the  street,  as  he  came  hither- 
ward  ;  he  looked,  also,  in  the  angle  of  the  door-step,  and 
upon  the  floor  of  the  room ;  and,  finally,  coming  up  to 
the  Man  of  Intelligence,  he  gazed  through  the  inscruta- 
ble spectacles  which  the  latter  wore,  as  if  the  lost  treasure 
might  be  hidden  within  his  eyes. 

"I  have  lost — "  he  began;  and  then  he  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Intelligencer,  "  I  see  that  you  have 
lost — .but  what?" 

"  I  have  lost  a  precious  jewel !  "  replied  the  unfortu- 
nate person,  "  the  like  of  which  is  not  to  be  found  among 
any  prince's  treasures.  While  I  possessed  it,  the  con- 
templation of  it  was  my  sole  and  sufficient  happiness. 
No  price  should  have  purchased  it  of  me ;  but  it  has 
fallen  from  my  bosom,  where  I  wore  it,  in  my  careless 
wanderings  about  the  city." 

After  causing  the  stranger  to  describe  the  marks  of 
his  lost  jewel,  the  Intelligencer  opened  a  drawer  of  the 


76     MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

oaken  cabinet,  which  has  been  mentioned  as  forming  a 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  room.  Here  were  deposited 
whatever  articles  had  been  picked  up  in  the  streets, 
until  the  right  owners  should  claim  them.  It  was  a 
strange  and  heterogeneous  collection.  Not  the  least 
remarkable  part  of  it  was  a  great  number  of  wedding- 
rings,  each  one  of  which  had  been  riveted  upon  the  finger 
with  holy  vows,  and  all  the  mystic  potency  that  the  most 
solemn  rites  could  attain,  but  had,  nevertheless,  proved 
too  slippery  for  the  wearer's  vigilance.  The  gold  of 
some  was  worn  thin,  betokening  the  attrition  of  years 
of  wedlock :  others,  glittering  from  the  jeweller's  shop, 
must  have  been  lost  within  the  honey-moon.  There  were 
ivory  tablets,  the  leaves  scribbled  over  with  sentiments 
that  had  been  the  deepest  truths  of  the  writer's  earlier 
years,  but  which  were  now  quite  obliterated  from  his 
memory.  So  scrupulously  were  articles  preserved  in  this 
depository,  that  not  even  withered  flowers  were  rejected ; 
white  roses,  and  blush  roses,  and  moss-roses,  fit  emblems 
of  virgin  purity  and  shamefacedness,  which  had  been 
lost  or  flung  away,  and  trampled  into  the  pollution  of 
the  streets;  locks  of  hair  —  the  golden,  and  the  glossy 
dark  —  the  long  tresses  of  woman  and  the  crisp  curls  of 
man  —  signified  that  lovers  were  now  and  then  so  heed- 
less of  the  faith  intrusted  to  them,  as  to  drop  its  symbol 
from  the  treasure-place  of  the  bosom.  Many  of  these 
things  were  imbued  with  perfumes ;  and  perhaps  a  sweet 
scent  had  departed  from  the  lives  of  their  former  pos- 
sessors, ever  since  they  had  so  wilfully  or  negligently  lost 
them.  Here  were  gold  pencil-cases,  little  ruby  hearts 
with  golden  arrows  through  them,  bosom-pins,  pieces  of 
coin,  and  small  articles  of  every  description,  comprising 
nearly  all  that  have  been  lost,  since  a  long  while  ago. 
Most  of  them,  doubtless,  had  a  history  and  a  meaning, 
if  there  were  time  to  search  it  out  and  room  to  tell  it. 
Whoever  has  missed  anything  valuable,  whether  out  of 
his  heart,  mind,  or  pocket,  would  do  well  to  make  inquiry 
at  the  Central  Intelligence  Office. 

And,  in  the  corner  of  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  oaken 
cabinet,  after  considerable  research,  was  found  a  great 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE      77 

pearl,  looking  like  the  soul  of  celestial  purity,  congealed 
and  polished. 

"There  is  my  jewel!  my  very  pearl!"  cried  the 
stranger,  almost  beside  himself  with  rapture.  "  It  is 
mine !  Give  it  me — this  moment!  — or  I  shall  perish  ! " 

"  I  perceive,"  said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  examin- 
ing it  more  closely,  "that  this  is  the  Pearl  of  Great 
Price." 

"  The  very  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "  Judge, 
then,  of  my  misery  at  losing  it  out  of  my  bosom ! 
Restore  it  to  me  !  I  must  not  live  without  it  an  instant 
longer." 

"  Pardon  me,"  rejoined  the  Intelligencer,  calmly. 
"You  ask  what  is  beyond  my  duty.  This  pearl,  as 
you  well  know,  is  held  upon  a  peculiar  tenure ;  and 
having  once  let  it  escape  from  your  keeping,  you  have 
no  greater  claim  to  it  —  nay,  not  so  great  —  as  any  other 
person.  I  cannot  give  it  back." 

Nor  could  the  entreaties  of  the  miserable  man  —  who 
saw  before  his  eyes  the  jewel  of  his  life,  without  the 
power  to  reclaim  it  —  soften  the  heart  of  this  stern 
being,  impassive  to  human  sympathy,  though  exercis- 
ing such  an  apparent  influence  over  human  fortunes. 
Finally  the  loser  of  the  inestimable  pearl  clutched  his 
hands  among  his  hair,  and  ran  madly  forth  into  the 
world,  which  was  affrighted  at  his  desperate  looks. 
There  passed  him  on  the  door-step  a  fashionable  young 
gentleman,  whose  business  was  to  inquire  for  a  damask 
rosebud,  the  gift  of  his  lady  love,  which  he  had  lost  out 
of  his  buttonhole  within  an  hour  after  receiving  it.  So 
various  were  the  errands  of  those  who  visited  this  Cen- 
tral Office,  where  all  human  wishes  seemed  to  be  made 
known,  and,  so  far  as  destiny  would  allow,  negotiated 
to  their  fulfilment. 

The  next  that  entered  was  a  man  beyond  the  middle 
age,  bearing  the  look  of  one  who  knew  the  world  and 
his  own  course  in  it.  He  had  just  alighted  from  a  hand- 
some private  carriage,  which  had  orders  to  wait  in  the 
street  while  its  owner  transacted  his  business.  This 
person  came  up  to  the  desk  with  a  quick,  determined 


78     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

step,  and  looked  the  Intelligencer  in  the  face  with  a 
resolute  eye;  though,  at  the  same  time,  some  secret 
trouble  gleamed  from  it  in  red  and  dusky  light. 

"  I  have  an  estate  to  dispose  of,"  said  he,  with  a 
brevity  that  seemed  characteristic. 

"  Describe  it,"  said  the  Intelligencer. 

The  applicant  proceeded  to  give  the  boundaries  of  his 
property,  its  nature,  comprising  tillage,  pasture,  wood- 
land, and  pleasure-grounds,  in  ample  circuit;  together 
with  a  mansion-house,  in  the  construction  of  which  it 
had  been  his  object  to  realize  a  castle  in  the  air,  harden- 
ing its  shadowy  walls  into  granite,  and  rendering  its 
visionary  splendor  perceptible  to  the  awakened  eye. 
Judging  from  his  description,  it  was  beautiful  enough 
to  vanish  like  a  dream,  yet  substantial  enough  to  endure 
for  centuries.  He  spoke,  too,  of  the  gorgeous  furniture, 
the  refinements  of  upholstery,  and  all  the  luxurious  arti- 
fices that  combined  to  render  this  a  residence  where  life 
might  flow  onward  in  a  stream  of  golden  days,  undis- 
turbed by  the  ruggedness  which  fate  loves  to  fling 
into  it. 

"I  am  a  man  of  strong  will,"  said  he,  in  conclusion ; 
"  and  at  my  first  setting  out  in  life,  as  a  poor,  un- 
friended youth,  I  resolved  to  make  myself  the  possessor 
of  such  a  mansion  and  estate  as  this,  together  with  the 
abundant  revenue  necessary  to  uphold  it.  I  have  suc- 
ceeded to  the  extent  of  my  utmost  wish.  And  this  is 
the  estate  which  I  have  now  concluded  to  dispose  of." 

"  And  your  terms  ? "  asked  the  Intelligencer,  after 
taking  down  the  particulars  with  which  the  stranger 
had  supplied  him. 

"Easy  —  abundantly  easy!"  answered  the  success- 
ful man,  smiling,  but  with  a  stern  and  almost  frightful 
contraction  of  the  brow,  as  if  to  quell  an  inward  pang. 
"I  have  been  engaged  in  various  sorts  of  business  — 
a  distiller,  a  trader  to  Africa,  an  East  India  merchant, 
a  speculator  in  the  stocks  —  and,  in  the  course  of  these 
affairs,  have  contracted  an  incumbrance  of  a  certain 
nature.  The  purchaser  of  the  estate  shall  merely  be 
required  to  assume  this  burden  to  himself." 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE       79 

"I  understand  you,"  said  the  Man  of  Intelligence, 
putting  his  pen  behind  his  ear.  "  I  fear  that  no  bar- 
gain can  be  negotiated  on  these  conditions.  Very 
probably,  the  next  possessor  may  acquire  the  estate 
with  a  similar  incumbrance,  but  it  will  be  of  his  own 
contracting,  and  will  not  lighten  your  burden  in  the 
least." 

"  And  am  I  to  live  on,"  fiercely  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
"  with  the  dirt  of  these  accursed  acres,  and  the  granite 
of  this  infernal  mansion,  crushing  down  my  soul  ?  How, 
if  I  should  turn  the  edifice  into  an  almshouse  or  a  hospi- 
tal, or  tear  it  down  and  build  a  church  ? " 

"  You  can  at  least  make  the  experiment,"  said  the 
Intelligencer ;  "  but  the  whole  matter  is  one  which  you 
must  settle  for  yourself." 

The  man  of  deplorable  success  withdrew,  and  got 
into  his  coach,  which  rattled  off  lightly  over  the  wooden 
pavements,  though  laden  with  the  weight  of  much  land, 
a  stately  house,  and  ponderous  heaps  of  gold,  all  com- 
pressed into  an  evil  conscience. 

There  now  appeared  many  applicants  for  places; 
among  the  most  noteworthy  of  whom  was  a  small, 
smoke-dried  figure,  who  gave  himself  out  to  be  one  of 
the  bad  spirits  that  had  waited  upon  Doctor  Faustus 
in  his  laboratory.  He  pretended  to  show  a  certificate 
of  character,  which,  he  averred,  had  been  given  him 
by  that  famous  necromancer,  and  countersigned  by 
several  masters  whom  he  had  subsequently  served. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  good  friend,"  observed  the  Intel- 
ligencer, "that  your  chance  of  getting  a  service  is  but 
poor.  Nowadays,  men  act  the  evil  spirit  for  them- 
selves and  for  their  neighbors,  and  play  the  part  more 
effectually  than  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  your 
fraternity." 

But,  just  as  the  poor  fiend  was  assuming  a  vaporous 
consistency,  being  about  to  vanish  through  the  floor 
in  sad  disappointment  and  chagrin,  the  editor  of  a 
political  newspaper  chanced  to  enter  the  office,  in 
quest  of  a  scribbler  of  party  paragraphs.  The  former 
servant  of  Doctor  Faustus,  with  some  misgivings  as 


8o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

to  his  sufficiency  of  venom,  was  allowed  to  try  his  hand 
in  this  capacity.  Next  appeared,  likewise  seeking  a 
service,  the  mysterious  Man  in  Red,  who  had  aided 
Buonaparte  in  his  ascent  to  imperial  power.  He  was 
examined  as  to  his  qualifications  by  an  aspiring  poli- 
tician, but  finally  rejected,  as  lacking  familiarity  with 
the  cunning  tactics  of  the  present  day. 

People  continued  to  succeed  each  other,  with  as  much 
briskness  as  if  everybody  turned  aside,  out  of  the  roar 
and  tumult  of  the  city,  to  record  here  some  want,  or 
superfluity,  or  desire.  Some  had  goods  or  possessions, 
of  which  they  wished  to  negotiate  the  sale.  A  China 
merchant  had  lost  his  health  by  a  long  residence  in  that 
wasting  climate  ;  he  very  liberally  offered  his  disease, 
and  his  wealth  along  with  it,  to  any  physician  who  would 
rid  him  of  both  together.  A  soldier  offered  his  wreath 
of  laurels  for  as  good  a  leg  as  that  which  it  had  cost 
him,  on  the  battle-field.  One  poor  weary  wretch  desired 
nothing  but  to  be  accommodated  with  any  creditable 
method  of  laying  down  his  life ;  for  misfortune  and 
pecuniary  troubles  had  so  subdued  his  spirits,  that  he 
could  no  longer  conceive  the  possibility  of  happiness, 
nor  had  the  heart  to  try  for  it.  Nevertheless,  happen- 
ing to  overhear  some  conversation  in  the  Intelligence 
Office,  respecting  wealth  to  be  rapidly  accumulated  by 
a  certain  mode  of  speculation,  he  resolved  to  live  out 
this  one  other  experiment  of  better  fortune.  Many  per- 
sons desired  to  exchange  their  youthful  vices  for  others 
better  suited  to  the  gravity  of  advancing  age ;  a  few,  we 
are  glad  to  say,  made  earnest  efforts  to  exchange  vice 
for  virtue,  and,  hard  as  the  bargain  was,  succeeded  in 
effecting  it.  But  it  was  remarkable,  that  what  all  were 
the  least  willing  to  give  up,  even  on  the  most  advan- 
tageous terms,  were  the  habits,  the  oddities,  the  charac- 
teristic traits,  the  little  ridiculous  indulgences,  somewhere 
between  faults  and  follies,  of  which  nobody  but  them- 
selves could  understand  the  fascination. 

The  great  folio,  in  which  the  Man  of  Intelligence  re- 
corded all  these  freaks  of  idle  hearts,  and  aspirations  of 
deep  hearts,  and  desperate  longings  of  miserable  hearts, 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE       81 

and  evil  prayers  of  perverted  hearts,  would  be  curious 
reading,  were  it  possible  to  obtain  it  for  publication. 
Human  character  in  its  individual  developments  — 
human  nature  in  the  mass  —  may  best  be  studied  in  its 
wishes ;  and  this  was  the  record  of  them  all.  There 
was  an  endless  diversity  of  mode  and  circumstance,  yet 
withal  such  a  similarity  in  the  real  ground-work,  that 
any  one  page  of  the  volume  —  whether  written  in  the 
days  before  the  Flood,  or  the  yesterday  that  is  just  gone 
by,  or  to  be  written  on  the  morrow  that  is  close  at  hand, 
or  a  thousand  ages  hence  —  might  serve  as  a  specimen 
of  the  whole.  Not  but  that  there  were  wild  sallies  of 
fantasy  that  could  scarcely  occur  to  more  than  one  man's 
brain,  whether  reasonable  or  lunatic.  The  strangest 
wishes  —  yet  most  incident  to  men  who  had  gone  deep 
into  scientific  pursuits,  and  attained  a  high  intellectual 
stage,  though  not  the  loftiest  —  were,  to  contend  with 
Nature,  and  wrest  from  her  some  secret,  or  some  power, 
which  she  had  seen  fit  to  withhold  from  mortal  grasp. 
She  loves  to  delude  her  aspiring  students,  and  mock 
them  with  mysteries  that  seem  but  just  beyond  their 
utmost  reach.  To  concoct  new  minerals  —  to  produce 
new  forms  of  vegetable  life  —  to  create  an  insect,  if 
nothing  higher  in  the  living  scale  —  is  a  sort  of  wish 
that  has  often  revelled  in  the  breast  of  a  man  of  science. 
An  astronomer,  who  lived  far  more  among  the  distant 
worlds  of  space  than  in  this  lower  sphere,  recorded  a 
wish  to  behold  the  opposite  side  of  the  moon,  which, 
unless  the  system  of  the  firmament  be  reversed,  she  can 
never  turn  towards  the  earth.  On  the  same  page  of  the 
volume  was  written  the  wish  of  a  little  child,  to  have  the 
stars  for  playthings. 

The  most  ordinary  wish,  that  was  written  down  with 
wearisome  recurrence,  was,  of  course,  for  wealth,  wealth, 
wealth,  in  sums  from  a  few  shillings  up  to  unreckonable 
thousands.  But,  in  reality,  this  often  repeated  expres- 
sion covered  as  many  different  desires.  Wealth  is  the 
golden  essence  of  the  outward  world,  embodying  almost 
everything  that  exists  beyond  the  limits  of  the  soul ; 
and  therefore  it  is  the  natural  yearning  for  the  life  in 


82     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  midst  of  which  we  find  ourselves,  and  of  which  gold 
is  the  condition  of  enjoyment,  that  men  abridge  into  this 
general  wish.  Here  and  there,  it  is  true,  the  volume 
testified  to  some  heart  so  perverted  as  to  desire  gold  for 
its  own  sake.  Many  wished  for  power ;  a  strange  desire, 
indeed,  since  it  is  but  another  form  of  slavery.  Old 
people  wished  for  the  delights  of  youth ;  a  fop,  for  a 
fashionable  coat;  an  idle  reader,  for  a  new  novel;  a 
versifier,  for  a  rhyme  to  some  stubborn  word;  a  painter, 
for  Titian's  secret  of  coloring ;  a  prince,  for  a  cottage ; 
a  republican,  for  a  kingdom  and  a  palace ;  a  libertine, 
for  his  neighbor's  wife;  a  man  of  palate,  for  green  peas ; 
and  a  poor  man,  for  a  crust  of  bread.  The  ambitious 
desires  of  public  men,  elsewhere  so  craftily  concealed, 
were  here  expressed  openly  and  boldly,  side  by  side  with 
the  unselfish  wishes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  race,  so  beautiful,  so  comforting,  in  contrast 
with  the  egotism  that  continually  weighed  self  against 
the  world.  Into  the  darker  secrets  of  the  Book  of 
Wishes,  we  will  not  penetrate. 

It  would  be  an  instructive  employment  for  a  student 
of  mankind,  perusing  this  volume  carefully,  and  com- 
paring its  records  with  men's  perfected  designs,  as 
expressed  in  their  deeds  and  daily  life,  to  ascertain  how 
far  the  one  accorded  with  the  other.  Undoubtedly,  in 
.most  cases,  the  correspondence  would  be  found  remote. 
/  The  holy  and  generous  wish,  that  rises  like  incense  from 
a  pure  heart  towards  heaven,  oftep  lavishes  its  sweet  per- 
fume on  the  blast  of  evil  timesy  The  foul,  selfish,  mur- 
derous  wish,  that  steams  forth*  from  a  corrupted  heart, 
often  passes  into  the  spiritual  atmosphere,  without  being 
concreted  into  an  earthly  deed.  Yet  this  volume  is  prob- 
ably truer,  as  a  representation  of  the  human  heart,  than 
is  the  living  drama  of  action,  as  it  evolves  around  us. 
There  is  more  of  good  and  more  of  evil  in  it;  more 
redeeming  points  of  the  bad,  and  more  errors  of  the 
virtuous ;  higher  upsoarings,  and  baser  degradation  of 
the  soul ;  in  short,  a  more  perplexing  amalgamation  of  vice 
and  virtue,  than  we  witness  in  the  outward  world.  De- 
cency, and  external  conscience,  often  produce  a  far  fairer 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE       83 

outside,  than  is  warranted  by  the  stains  within.  And 
be  it  owned,  on  the  other  hand,  that  a  man  seldom 
repeats  to  his  nearest  friend,  any  more  than  he  realizes 
in  act,  the  purest  wishes,  which,  at  some  blessed  time  or 
other,  have  arisen  from  the  depths  of  his  nature,  and 
witnessed  for  him  in  this  volume.  Yet  there  is  enough, 
on  every  leaf,  to  make  the  good  man  shudder  for  his 
own  wild  and  idle  wishes,  as  well  as  for  the  sinner,  whose 
whole  life  is  the  incarnation  of  a  wicked  desire. 

But  again  the  door  is  opened  and  we  hear  the  tumul- 
tuous stir  of  the  world  —  a  deep  and  awful  sound, 
expressing  in  another  form  some  portion  of  what  is 
written  in  the  volume  that  lies  before  the  Man  of  Intel- 
ligence. A  grandfatherly  personage  tottered  hastily 
into  the  office,  with  such  an  earnestness  in  his  infirm 
alacrity  that  his  white  hair  floated  backward,  as  he 
hurried  up  to  the  desk ;  while  his  dim  eyes  caught  a 
momentary  lustre  from  his  vehemence  of  purpose.  This 
venerable  figure  explained  that  he  was  in  search  of 
To-morrow. 

"  I  have  spent  all  my  life  in  pursuit  of  it,"  added  the 
sage  old  gentleman,  "being  assured  that  To-morrow 
has  some  vast  benefit  or  other  in  store  for  me.  But  I 
am  now  getting  a  little  in  years,  and  must  make  haste ; 
for  unless  I  overtake  To-morrow  soon,  I  begin  to  be 
afraid  it  will  finally  escape  me." 

"  This  fugitive  To-morrow,  my  venerable  friend," 
said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  "  is  a  stray  child  of  Time, 
and  is  flying  from  his  father  into  the  region  of  the 
infinite.  Continue  your  pursuit,  and  you  will  doubtless 
come  up  with  him  ;  but  as  to  the  earthly  gifts  which  you 
expect,  he  has  scattered  them  all  among  a  throng  of 
Yesterdays." 

Obliged  to  content  himself  with  this  enigmatical 
response,  the  grandsire  hastened  forth,  with  a  quick 
clatter  of  his  staff  upon  the  floor  ;  and,  as  he  disappeared, 
a  little  boy  scampered  through  the  door  in  chase  of  a 
butterfly,  which  had  got  astray  amid  the  barren  sun- 
shine of  the  city.  Had  the  old  gentleman  been  shrewder, 
he  might  have  detected  To-morrow  under  the  semblance 


84     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

of  that  gaudy  insect.  The  golden  butterfly  glistened 
through  the  shadowy  apartment,  and  brushed  its  wings 
against  the  Book  of  Wishes,  and  fluttered  forth  again, 
with  the  child  still  in  pursuit. 

A  man  now  entered,  in  neglected  attire,  with  the 
aspect  of  a  thinker,  but  somewhat  too  rough-hewn  and 
brawny  for  a  scholar.  His  face  was  full  of  sturdy  vigor, 
with  some  finer  and  keener  attribute  beneath  ;  though 
harsh  at  first,  it  was  tempered  with  the  glow  of  a  large, 
warm  heart,  which  had  force  enough  to  heat  his  power- 
ful intellect  through  and  through.  He  advanced  to  the 
Intelligencer,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  glance  of  such 
stern  sincerity,  that  perhaps  few  secrets  were  beyond  its 
scope. 

"  I  seek  for  Truth,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  precisely  the  most  rare  pursuit  that  has  ever 
come  under  my  cognizance,"  replied  the  Intelligencer, 
as  he  made  the  new  inscription  in  his  volume.  "  Most 
men  seek  to  impose  some  cunning  falsehood  upon  them- 
selves for  truth.  But  I  can  lend  no  help  to  your 
researches.  You  must  achieve  the  miracle  for  yourself. 
At  some  fortunate  moment,  you  may  find  Truth  at  your 
side  —  or,  perhaps,  she  may  be  mistily  discerned,  far  in 
advance  —  or,  possibly  behind  you." 

"  Not  behind  me,"  said  the  seeker,  "  for  I  have  left 
nothing  on  my  track  without  a  thorough  investigation. 
She  flits  before  me,  passing  now  through  a  naked  soli- 
tude, and  now  mingling  with  the  throng  of  a  popular 
assembly,  and  now  writing  with  the  pen  of  a  French 
philosopher,  and  now  standing  at  the  altar  of  an  old 
cathedral,  in  the  guise  of  a  Catholic  priest,  performing 
the  high  mass.  Oh,  weary  search!  But  I  must  not 
falter;  and  surely  my  heart-deep  quest  of  Truth  shall 
avail  at  last" 

He  paused,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  Intelligencer, 
with  a  depth  of  investigation  that  seemed  to  hold  com- 
merce with  the  inner  nature  of  this  being,  wholly 
regardless  of  his  external  development. 

"  And  what  are  you  ?  "  said  he.  "  It  will  not  satisfy 
me  to  point  to  this  fantastic  show  of  an  Intelligence 


THE   INTELLIGENCE   OFFICE       85 

Office,  and  this  mockery  of  business.  Tell  me  what  is 
beneath  it,  and  what  your  real  agency  in  life,  and  your 
influence  upon  mankind  ?  " 

"  Yours  is  a  mind,"  answered  the  Man  of  Intelligence, 
"before  which  the  forms  and  fantasies  that  conceal  the 
inner  idea  from  the  multitude,  vanish  at  once,  and  leave 
the  naked  reality  beneath.  Know,  then,  the  secret. 
My  agency  in  worldly  action  —  my  connection  with  the 
press,  and  tumult,  and  intermingling,  and  development 
of  human  affairs  —  is  merely  delusive.  The  desire  of 
man's  heart  does  for  him  whatever  I  seem  to  do.  I  am 
no  minister  of  action,  but  the  Recording  Spirit !  " 

What  further  secrets  were  then  spoken,  remains  a 
mystery ;  inasmuch  as  the  roar  of  the  city,  the  bustle 
of  human  business,  the  outcry  of  the  jostling  masses, 
the  rush  and  tumult  of  man's  life,  in  its  noisy  and  brief 
career,  arose  so  high  that  it  drowned  the  words  of  these 
two  talkers.  And  whether  they  stood  talking  in  the 
Moon  or  in  Vanity  Fair,  or  in  a  city  of  this  actual 
world,  is  more  than  I  can  say. 


ROGER   MALVIN'S    BURIAL 

ONE  of  the  few  incidents  of  Indian  warfare,  natu- 
rally susceptible  of  the  moonlight  of  romance,  was 
that  expedition,  undertaken  for  the  defence  of  the 
frontiers  in  the  year  1725,  which  resulted  in  the  well- 
remembered  "  Lovell's  Fight."  Imagination,  by  casting 
certain  circumstances  judiciously  into  the  shade,  may 
see  much  to  admire  in  the  heroism  of  a  little  band,  who 
gave  battle  to  twice  their  number  in  the  heart  of  the 

enemy's    country.       The    open hra.ye.ry    displayed    by 

both  parties  was  in  accordance  with  civilized  ideas  _of 
valor t  aiid^chivalry  itself  mignt  fljofr  blush_to  r^cnrd  frer^ 
deeds  aTone  or  two  individuals/  The  battle;  though  sdT 
fatal  to  those  wlio  fought,  was  not  unfortunate  in  its 
consequences  to  the  country ;  for  it  broke  the  strength 
of  a  tribe,  and  conduced  to  the  peace  which  subsisted 
during  several  ensuing  years.  History  and  tradition 
are  unusually  minute  in  their  memorials  of  this  affair ; 
and  the  captain  of  a  scouting  party  of  frontiermen  has 
acquired  as  actual  a  military  renown,  as  many  a  victori- 
ous leader  of  thousands.  Some  of  the  incidents  con- 
tained in  the  following  pages  will  be  recognized, 
notwithstanding  the  substitution  of  fictitious  names,  by 
such  as  have  heard,  from  old  men's  lips,  the  fate  of  the 
few  combatants  who  were  in  a  condition  to  retreat  after 
"  Lovell's  Fight" 

****** 

The  early  sunbeams  hovered  cheerfully  upon  the  tree- 
tops,  beneath  which  two  weary  and  wounded  men  had 
stretched  their  limbs  the  night  before.  Their  bed  of 
withered  oak-leaves  was  strewn  upon  the  small  level 
space,  at  the  foot  of  a  rock,  situated  near  the  summit  of 
one  of  the  gentle  swells  by  which  the  face  of  the  country 
36 


ROGER   MALVIN'S   BURIAL          87 

is  there  diversified.  The  mass  of  granite,  rearing  its 
smooth,  flat  surface  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  above  their 
heads,  was  not  unlike  a  gigantic  gravestone,  upon  which 
the  veins  seemed  to  form  an  inscription  in  forgotten 
characters.  On  a  tract  of  several  acres  around  this 
rock,  oaks  and  other  hard-wood  trees  had  supplied  the 
place  of  the  pines  which  were  the  usual  growth  of  the 
land  ;  and  a  young  and  vigorous  sapling  stood  close 
beside  the  travellers. 

The  severe  wound  of  the  elder  man  had  probably 
deprived  him  of  sleep  ;  for,  so  soon  as  the  first  ray  of 
sunshine  rested  on  the  top  of  the  highest  tree,  he  reared 
himself  painfully  from  his  recumbent  posture  and  sat 
erect.  The  deep  lines  of  his  countenance,  and  the  scat- 
tered gray  of  his  hair,  marked  him  as  past  the  middle 
age ;  but  his  muscular  frame  would,  but  for  the  effects 
of  his  wound,  have  been  as  capable  of  sustaining  fatigue, 
as  in  the  early  vigor  of  life.  Languor  and  exhaustion 
now  sat  upon  his  haggard  features,  and  the  despairing 
glance  which  he  sent  forward  through  the  depths  of  the 
forest,  proved  his  own  conviction  that  his  pilgrimage 
was  at  an  end.  He  next  turned  his  eyes  to  the  com- 
panion who  reclined  by  his  side.  The  youth,  for  he  had 
scarcely  attained  the  years  of  manhood,  lay,  with  his 
head  upon  his  arm,  in  the  embrace  of  an  unquiet  sleep, 
which  a  thrill  of  pain  from  his  wounds  seemed  each 
moment  on  the  point  of  breaking.  His  right  hand 
grasped  a  musket,  and  to  judge  from  the  violent  action 
of  his  features,  his  slumbers  were  bringing  back  a  vision 
of  the  conflict,  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  few  survivors. 
A  shout — deep  and  loud  in  his  dreaming  fancy — found 
its  way  in  an  imperfect  murmur  to  his  lips,  and,  starting 
even  at  the  slight  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he  suddenly 
awoke.  The  first  act  of  reviving  recollection  was  to 
make  anxious  inquiries  respecting  the  condition  of  his 
wounded  fellow-traveller.  The  latter  shook  his  head. 

"  Reuben,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "  this  rock,  beneath  which 
we  sit,  will  serve  for  an  old  hunter's  gravestone.  There 
is  many  and  many  a  long  mile  of  howling  wilderness 
before  us  yet :  nor  would  it  avail  me  anything,  if  the 


88     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

smoke  of  my  own  chimney  were  but  on  the  other  side 
of  that  swell  of  land.  The  Indian  bullet  was  deadlier 
than  I  thought." 

"  You  are  weary  with  our  three  days'  travel,"  replied 
the  youth,  "  and  a  little  longer  rest  will  recruit  you. 
Sit  you  here,  while  I  search  the  woods  for  the  herbs 
and  roots  that  must  be  our  sustenance ;  and  having 
eaten,  you  shall  lean  on  me,  and  we  will  turn  our  faces 
homeward.  I  doubt  not,  that,  with  my  help,  you  can 
attain  to  some  one  of  the  frontier  garrisons." 

"  There  is  not  two  days'  life  in  me,  Reuben,"  said 
the  other,  calmly,  "  and  I  will  no  longer  burthen  you 
with  my  useless  body,  when  you  can  scarcely  support 
your  own.  Your  wounds  are  deep,  and  your  strength 
is  failing  fast ;  yet,  if  you  hasten  onward  alone,  you  may 
be  preserved.  For  me  there  is  no  hope ;  and  I  will 
await  death  here." 

"  If  it  must  be  so,  I  will  remain  and  watch  by  you," 
said  Reuben,  resolutely. 

"No,  my  son,  no,"  rejoined  his  companion.  "Let 
the  wish  of  a  dying  man  have  weight  with  you  ;  give 
me  one  grasp  of  your  hand,  and  get  you  hence.  Think 
you  that  my  last  moments  will  be  eased  by  the  thought, 
that  I  leave  you  to  die  a  more  lingering  death  ?  I  have 
loved  you  like  a  father,  Reuben,  and  at  a  time  like  this, 
I  should  have  something  of  a  father's  authority.  I 
charge  you  to  be  gone,  that  I  may  die  in  peace." 

"  And  because  you  have  been  a  father  to  me,  should 
I  therefore  leave  you  to  perish,  and  to  lie  unburied  in 
the  wilderness  ? "  exclaimed  the  youth.  "  No ;  if  your 
end  be  in  truth  approaching,  I  will  watch  by  you,  and 
receive  your  parting  words.  I  will  dig  a  grave  here  by 
the  rock,  in  which,  if  my  weakness  overcome  me,  we 
will  rest  together ;  or,  if  Heaven  gives  me  strength,  I 
will  seek  my  way  home." 

"  In  the  cities,  and  wherever  men  dwell,"  replied  the 
other,  "  they  bury  their  dead  in  the  earth ;  they  hide 
them  from  the  sight  of  the  living ;  but  here,  where  no 
step  may  pass,  perhaps  for  a  hundred  years,  wherefore 
should  I  not  rest  beneath  the  open  sky,  covered  only  by 


ROGER    MALVIN'S   BURIAL          89 

the  oak-leaves,  when  the  autumn  winds  shall  strew  them  ? 
And  for  a  monument,  here  is  this  gray  rock,  on  which 
my  dying  hand  shall  carve  the  name  of  Roger  Malvin ; 
and  the  traveller  in  days  to  come  will  know,  that  here 
sleeps  a  hunter  and  a  warrior.  Tarry  not,  then,  for  a 
folly  like  this,  but  hasten  away,  if  not  for  your  own 
sake,  for  hers  who  will  else  be  desolate." 

Malvin  spoke  the  last  few  words  in  a  faltering  voice, 
and  their  effect  upon  his  companion  was  strongly  visible. 
They  reminded  him  that  there  were  other,  and  less 
questionable,  duties,  than  that  of  sharing  the  fate  of  a 
man  whom  his  death  could  not  benefit.  Nor  can  it  be 
affirmed  that  no  selfish  feeling  strove  to  enter  Reuben's 
heart,  though  the  consciousness  made  him  more  ear- 
nestly resist  his  companion's  entreaties. 

"  How  terrible,  to  await  the  slow  approach  of  death 
in  this  solitude!"  exclaimed  he.  "  A  brave  man  does 
not  shrink  in  battle,  and,  when  friends  stand  round  the 
bed,  even  women  may  die  composedly ;  but  here  —  " 

"  I  shall  not  shrink,  even  here,  Reuben  Bourne," 
interrupted  Malvin ;  "  I  am  a  man  of  no  weak  heart ; 
and,  if  I  were,  there  is  a  surer  support  than  that  of 
earthly  friends.  You  are  young,  and  life  is  dear  to  you. 
Your  last  moments  will  need  comfort  far  more  than 
mine ;  and  when  you  have  laid  me  in  the  earth,  and  are 
alone,  and  night  is  settling  on  the  forest,  you  will  feel 
all  the  bitterness  of  the  death  that  may  now  be  escaped. 
But  I  will  urge  no  selfish  motive  to  your  generous  nature. 
Leave  me  for  my  sake ;  that,  having  said  a  prayer  for 
your  safety,  I  may  have  space  to  settle  my  account, 
undisturbed  by  worldly  sorrows." 

"  And  your  daughter  !  How  shall  I  dare  to  meet  her 
eye  !  "  exclaimed  Reuben.  "  She  will  ask  the  fate  of 
her  father,  whose  life  I  vowed  to  defend  with  my  own. 
Must  I  tell  her  that  he  travelled  three  days'  march  with 
me  from  the  field  of  battle,  and  that  then  I  left  him  to 
perish  in  the  wilderness  ?  Were  it  not  better  to  lie  down 
and  die  by  your  side,  than  to  return  safe,  and  say  this 
to  Dorcas  ?  " 

"  Tell  my  daughter,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  "that,  though 


9o     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

yourself  sore  wounded,  and  weak,  and  weary,  you  led 
my  tottering  footsteps  many  a  mile,  and  left  me  only  at 
my  earnest  entreaty,  because  I  would  not  have  your 
blood  upon  my  soul.  Tell  her,  that  through  pain  and 
danger  you  were  faithful,  and  that,  if  your  life-blood 
could  have  saved  me,  it  would  have  flowed  to  its  last 
drop.  And  tell  her,  that  you  will  be  something  dearer 
than  a  father,  and  that  my  blessing  is  with  you  both, 
and  that  my  dying  eyes  can  see  a  long  and  pleasant 
path,  in  which  you  will  journey  together." 

As  Malvin  spoke,  he  almost  raised  himself  from  the 
ground,  and  the  energy  of  his  concluding  words  seemed 
to  fill  the  wild  and  lonely  forest  with  a  vision  of  happi- 
ness. But  when  he  sank  exhausted  upon  his  bed  of 
oak-leaves,  the  light,  which  had  kindled  in  Reuben's  eye, 
was  quenched.  He  felt  as  if  it  were  both  sin  and  folly 
to  think  of  happiness  at  such  a  moment.  His  companion 
watched  his  changing  countenance,  and  sought,  with 
generous  art,  to  wile  him  to  his  own  good. 

"  Perhaps  I  deceive  myself  in  regard  to  the  time  I 
have  to  live,"  he  resumed.  "  It  may  be,  that,  with 
speedy  assistance,  I  might  recover  of  my  wound.  The 
former  fugitives  must,  ere  this,  have  carried  tidings  of 
our  fatal  battle  to  the  frontiers,  and  parties  will  be  out 
to  succor  those  in  like  condition  with  ourselves.  Should 
you  meet  one  of  these,  and  guide  them  hither,  who  can 
tell  but  that  I  may  sit  by  my  own  fireside  again  ? " 

A  mournful  smile  strayed  across  the  features  of  the 
dying  man,  as  he  insinuated  that  unfounded  hope ; 
which,  however,  was  not  without  its  effect  on  Reuben. 
No  merely  selfish  motive,  nor  even  the  desolate  con- 
dition of  Dorcas,  could  have  induced  him  to  desert 
his  companion,  at  such  a  moment.  But  his  wishes 
seized  upon  the  thought,  that  Malvin's  life  might  be 
preserved,  and  his  sanguine  nature  heightened,  almost  to 
certainty,  the  remote  possibility  of  procuring  human  aid. 

"  Surely  there  is  reason,  weighty  reason,  to  hope 
that  friends  are  not  far  distant,"  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"  There  fled  one  coward,  unwounded,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fight,  and  most  probably  he  made  good  speed. 


ROGER   MALVIN'S   BURIAL         91 

Every  true  man  on  the  frontier  would  shoulder  his 
musket,  at  the  news;  and  though  no  party  may  range 
so  far  into  the  woods  as  thisTJ  shall  perhaps  encounter 
them  in  one  day's  march.  Counsel  me  faithfully,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Malvin,  in  distrust  of  his  own  motives. 
"Were  your  situation  mine,  would  you  desert  jn^_whiie 
lif eT  remained  /  "  ^  » i,fcs ***tA»"*Vic/I 

"TTls  now  twenty  years,"  replied  Roger  Malvin, 
sighing,  however,  as  he  secretly  acknowledged  the 
wide  dissimilarity  between  the  two  cases,  —  "  it  is  now 
twenty  years,  since  I  escaped,  with  one  dear  friend, 
from  Indian  captivity,  near  Montreal.  •  We  journeyed 
many  days  through  the  woods,  till  at  length,  overcome 
with  hunger  and  weariness,  my  friend  lay  down,  and 
besought  me  to  leave  him ;  for  he  knew  that,  if  I  re- 
mained, we  both  must  perish.  And,  with  but  little 
hope  of  obtaining  succor,  I  heaped  a  pillow  of  dry 
leaves  beneath  his  head,  and  hastened  on." 

"  And  did  you  return  in  time  to  save  him  ? "  asked 
Reuben,  hanging  on  Malvin's  words,  as  if  they  were  to 
be  prophetic  of  his  own  success. 

"  I  did,"  answered  the  other.  "  I  came  upon  the 
camp  of  a  hunting-party,  before  sunset  of  the  same 
day.  I  guided  them  to  the  spot  where  my  comrade 
was  expecting  death ;  and  he  is  now  a  hale  and  hearty 
man,  upon  his  own  farm,  far  within  the  frontiers,  while 
I  lie  wounded  here,  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness." 

This  example,  powerful  in  affecting  Reuben's  deci- 
sion, was  aided,  unconsciously  to  himself,  by  the  hidden 
strength  of  many  another  motive.  Roger  Malvin  per- 
ceived that  the  victory  was  nearly  won. 

"  Now  go,  rn^tm,  and  Heaven  prosper  you  !  "  he  said. 
"  Turn  not  back  with  your  friends,  when  you  meet  them, 
lest  your  wounds  and  weariness  overcome  you ;  but  send 
hitherward  two  or  three,  that  may  be  spared,  to  search 
for  me.  And  believe  me,  Reuben,  my  heart  will  be 
lighter  with  every  step  you  take  towards  home."  Yet 
there  was  perhaps  a  change,  both  in  his  countenance 
and  voice,  as  he  spoke  thus;  for,  after  all,  it  was  a 
ghastly  fate,  to  be  left  expiring  in  the  wilderness. 


92     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

Reuben  Bourne,  but  half  convinced  that  he  was  acting 
rightly,  at  length  raised  himself  from  the  ground,  and 
prepared  for  his  departure.  And  first,  though  contrary 
to  Malvin's  wishes,  he  collected  a  stock  of  roots  and 
herbs,  which  had  been  their  only  food  during  the  last 
two  days.  This  useless  supply  he  placed  within  reach 
of  the  dying  man,  for  whom,  also,  he  swept  together  a 
fresh  bed  of  dry  oak-leaves.  Then  climbing  to  the 
summit  of  the  rock,  which  on  one  side  was  rough  and 
broken,  he  bent  the  oak-sapling  downward,  and  bound 
his  handkerchief  to  the  topmost  branch.  This  precau- 
tion was  not  unnecessary,  to  direct  any  who  might  come 
in  search  of  Malvin ;  for  every  part  of  the  rock,  except 
its  broad  smooth  front,  was  concealed,  at  a  little  distance, 
by  the  dense  undergrowth  of  the  forest.  The  handker- 
chief had  been  the  bandage  of  a  wound  upon  Reuben's 
arm ;  and,  as  he  bound  it  to  the  tree,  he  vowed,  by  the 
blood  that  stained  it,  that  he  would  return,  either  to  save 
his  companion's  life,  or  to  lay  his  body  in  the  grave. 
He  then  descended,  and  stood,  with  downcast  eyes,  to 
receive  Roger  Malvin's  parting  words. 

The  experience  of  the  latter  suggested  much  and 
minute  advice,  respecting  the  youth's  journey  through 
the  trackless  forest.  Upon  this  subject  he  spoke  with 
calm  earnestness,  as  if  he  were  sending  Reuben  to  the 
battle  or  the  chase,  while  he  himself  remained  secure  at 
home ;  and  not  as  if  the  human  countenance  that  was 
about  to  leave  him,  were  the  last  he  would  ever  behold. 
But  his  firmness  was  shaken  before  he  concluded. 

"  Carry  my  blessing  to  Dorcas,  and  say  that  my  last 
prayer  shall  be  for  her  and  you.  Bid  her  to  have  no 
hard  thoughts  because  you  left  me  here  "  —  Reuben's 
heart  smote  him  —  "  for  that  your  life  would  not  have 
weighed  with  you,  if  its  sacrifice  could  have  done  me 
good.  She  will  marry  you,  after  she  has  mourned  a 
little  while  for  her  father ;  and  Heaven  grant  you  long 
and  happy  days!  and  may  your  children's  children 
stand  round  your  death-bed!  And,  Reuben,"  added 
he,  as  the  weakness  of  mortality  made  its  way  at  last, 
"  return,  when  your  wounds  are  healed  and  your  weari- 


ROGER    MALVIN'S   BURIAL          93 

ness  refreshed,  return  to  this  wild  rock,  and  lay  my 
bones  in  the  grave,  and  say  a  prayer  over  them." 

An  almost  superstitious  regard,  arising  perhaps  from 
the  customs  of  the  Indians,  whose  war  was  with  the 
dead,  as  well  as  the  living,  was  paid  by  the  frontier 
inhabitants  to  the  rites  of  sepulture;  and  there  are 
many  instances  of  the  sacrifice  of  life,  in  the  attempt 
to  bury  those  who  had  fallen  by  the  "  sword  of  the 
wilderness."  Reuben,  therefore,  felt  the  full  impor- 
tance of  the  promise,  which  he  most  solemnly  made, 
to  return,  and  perform  Roger  Malvin's  obsequies.  It 
was  remarkable,  that  the  latter,  speaking  his  whole 
heart  in  his  parting  words,  no  longer  endeavored  to 
persuade  the  youth,  that  even  the  speediest  succor 
might  avail  to  the  preservation  of  his  life.  Reuben  was 
internally  convinced  that  he  should  see  Malvin's  living 
face  no  more.  His  generous  nature  would  fain  have 
delayed  him,  at  whatever  risk,  till  the  dying  scene  were 
past ;  but  the  desire  of  existence  and  the  hope  of  happi- 
ness had  strengthened  in  his  heart,  and  he  was  unable 
to  resist  them. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Roger  Malvin,  having  listened 
to  Reuben's  promise.  "  Go,  and  God  speed  you !  " 

The  youth  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  turned,  and 
was  departing.  His  slow  and  faltering  steps,  however, 
had  borne  him  but  a  little  way,  before  Malvin's  voice 
recalled  him. 

"  Reuben,  Reuben,"  said  he,  faintly ;  and  Reuben 
returned  and  knelt  down  by  the  dying  man. 

"  Raise  me,  and  let  me  lean  against  the  rock,"  was 
his  last  request.  "  My  face  will  be  turned  towards 
home,  and  I  shall  see  you  a  moment  longer,  as  you 
pass  among  the  trees." 

Reuben,  having  made  the  desired  alteration  in  his 
companion's  posture,  again  began  his  solitary  pilgrim- 
age. He  walked  more  hastily  at  first  than  was  con- 
sistent with  his  strength  ;  for  a  sort  of  guilty  feeling, 
which  sometimes  torments  men  in  their  most  justifiable 
acts,  caused  him  to  seek  concealment  from  Malvin's 
eyes.  But,  after  he  had  trodden  far  upon  the  rustling 


94     MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

forest-leaves,  he  crept  back,  impelled  by  a  wild  and  pain- 
ful curiosity,  and,  sheltered  by  the  earthy  roots  of  an 
uptorn  tree,  gazed  earnestly  at  the  desolate  man.  The 
morning  sun  was  unclouded,  and  the  trees  and  shrubs 
imbibed  the  sweet  air  of  the  month  of  May ;  yet  there 
seemed  a  gloom  on  Nature's  face,  as  if  she  sympathized 
with  mortal  pain  and  sorrow.  Roger  Malvin's  hands 
were  uplifted  in  a  fervent  prayer,  some  of  the  words 
of  which  stole  through  the  stillness  of  the  woods,  and 
entered  Reuben's  heart,  torturing  it  with  an  unutterable 
pang.  They  were  the  broken  accents  of  a  petition 
for  his  own  happiness  and  that  of  Dorcas ;  and,  as  the 
youth  listened,  conscience,  or  something  in  its  similitude, 
pleaded  strongly  with  him  to  return,  and  lie  down 
again  by  the  rock.  He  felt  how  hard  was  the  doom  of 
the  kind  and  generous  being  whom  he  had  deserted 
in  his  extremity.  Death  would  come,  like  the  slow 
approach  of  a  corpse  stealing  gradually  towards  him 
through  the  forest,  and  showing  its  ghastly  and  motion- 
less features  from  behind  a  nearer,  and  yet  a  nearer 
tree.  But  such  must  have  been  Reuben's  own  fate, 
had  he  tarried  another  sunset;  and  who  shall  impute 
blame  to  him,  if  he  shrink  f rom,  so  useless  a  sacrifice! 
~As  lie  gave  a  parting  look,  a  breeze  waved  the  little 
banner  upon  the  sapling-oak,  and  reminded  Reuben  of 

his  vow. 

**#*#* 

Many  circumstances  contributed  to  retard  the  wounded 
traveller  in  his  way  to  the  frontiers.  On  the  second  day, 
the  clouds,  gathering  densely  over  the  sky,  precluded 
the  possibility  of  regulating  his  course  by  the  position 
of  the  sun  ;  and  he  knew  not  but  that  every  effort  of  his 
almost  exhausted  strength  was  removing  him  farther 
from  the  home  he  sought.  His  scanty  sustenance  was 
supplied  by  the  berries,  and  other  spontaneous  products 
of  the  forest.  Herds  of  deer,  it  is  true,  sometimes 
bounded  past  him,  and  partridges  frequently  whirred 
up  before  his  footsteps ;  but  his  ammunition  had  been 
expended  in  the  fight,  and  he  had  no  means  of  slaying 
them.  His  wounds,  irritated  by  the  constant  exertion 


ROGER    MALVIN'S    BURIAL          95 

in  which  lay  the  only  hope  of  life,  wore  away  his 
strength,  and  at  intervals  confused  his  reason.  But, 
even  in  the  wanderings  of  intellect,  Reuben's  young 
heart  clung  strongly  to  existence,  and  it  was  only 
through  absolute  incapacity  of  motion,  that  he  at  last 
sank  down  beneath  a  tree,  compelled  there  to  await 
death. 

In  this  situation  he  was  discovered  by  a  party,  who, 
upon  the  first  intelligence  of  the  fight,  had  been  de- 
spatched to  the  relief  of  the  survivors.  They  conveyed 
him  to  the  nearest  settlement,  which  chanced  to  be  that 
of  his  own  residence. 

Dorcas,  in  the  simplicity  of  the  olden  time,  watched 
by  the  bedside  of  her  wounded  lover,  and  administered 
all  those  comforts  that  are  in  the  sole  gift  of  woman's 
heart  and  hand.  During  several  days,  Reuben's  recol- 
lection strayed  drowsily  among  the  perils  and  hardships 
through  which  he  had  passed,  and  he  was  incapable  of 
returning  definite  answers  to  the  inquiries,  with  which 
many  were  eager  to  harass  him.  No  authentic  particu- 
lars of  the  battle  had  yet  been  circulated;  nor  could 
mothers,  wives,  and  children  tell,  whether  their  loved 
ones  were  detained  by  captivity,  or  by  the  stronger 
chain  of  death.  Dorcas  nourished  her  apprehensions 
in  silence,  till  one  afternoon,  when  Reuben  awoke  from 
an  unquiet  sleep,  and  seemed  to  recognize  her  more 
perfectly  than  at  any  previous  time.  She  saw  that 
his  intellect  had  become  composed,  and  she  could  no 
longer  restrain  her  filial  anxiety. 

"  My  father,  Reuben  ? "  she  began ;  but  the  change 
in  her  lover's  countenance  made  her  pause. 

The  youth  shrank,  as  if  with  a  bitter  pain,  and  the 
blood  gushed  vividly  into  his  wan  and  hollow  cheeks. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  cover  his  face ;  but,  apparently 
with  a  desperate  effort,  he  half  raised  himself,  and 
spoke  vehemently  defending'  himself  3-fffiirist.  j\ri  imagi- 
nary accusation. 


"  Your  father  was  sore  wounded  in  the  battle,  Dorcas, 
and  he  bade  me  not  burthen  myself  with  him,  but  only 
to  lead  him  to  the  lake-side,  that  he  might  quench  his 


96     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

thirst  and  die.  But  I  would  not  desert  the  old  man  in 
his  extremity,  and,  though  bleeding  myself,  I  supported 
him ;  I  gave  him  half  my  strength,  and  led  him  away 
with  me.  For  three  days  we  journeyed  on  together,  and 
your  father  was  sustained  beyond  my  hopes ;  but,  awak- 
ing at  sunrise  on  the  fourth  day,  I  found  him  faint  and 
exhausted,  —  he  was  unable  to  proceed,  —  his  life  had 
ebbed  away  fast,  —  and  —  " 

"  He  died !  "  exclaimed  Dorcas,  faintly. 

Reuben  felt  it  impossible  to  acknowledge  that  his 
selfish  love  of  life  had  hurried  him  away,  before  her 
father's  fate  was  decided.  He  spoke  not;  he  only 
bowed  his  head ;  and  between  shame  and  exhaustion, 
sank  back  and  hid  his  face  in  the  pillow.  Dorcas  wept, 
when  her  fears  were  thus  confirmed ;  but  the  shock,  as 
it  had  been  long  anticipated,  was  on  that  account  the 
less  violent. 

"You  dug  a  grave  for  my  poor  father  in  the  wilder- 
ness, Reuben?"  was  the  question  by  which  her  filial 
piety  manifested  itself. 

"  My  hands  were  weak,  but  I  did  what  I  could,"  re- 
plied the  youth,  in  a  smothered  tone.  "  There  stands  a 
noble  tombstone  above  his  head,  and  I  would  to  Heaven 
I  slept  as  soundly  as  he ! " 

Dorcas,  perceiving  the  wildness  of  his  latter  words, 
inquired  no  farther  at  that  time ;  but  her  heart  found 
ease  in  the  thought,  that  Roger  Malvin  had  not  lacked 
such  funeral  rites  as  it  was  possible  to  bestow.  The 
tale  of  Reuben's  courage  and  fidelity  lost  nothing  when 
she  communicated  it  to  her  friends ;  and  the  poor  youth, 
tottering  from  his  sick  chamber  to  breathe  the  sunny  air, 
experienced  from  every  tongue  the  miserable  and  humili- 
ating torture  of  unmerited  praise.  All  acknowledged 
that  he  might  worthily  demand  the  hand  of  the  fair 
maiden,  to  whose  father  he  had  been  "faithful  unto 
death  "  ;  and  as  my  tale  is  not  of  love,  it  shall  suffice  to 
say,  that,  in  the  space  of  two  years,  Reuben  became  the 
husband  of  Dorcas  Malvin.  During  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, the  bride  was  covered  with  blushes,  but  the 
bridegroom's  face  was  pale. 


ROGER   MALVIN'S   BURIAL         97 

There  was  now  in  the  breast  of  Reuben  Bourne  an 
incommunicable  thought ;  something  which  he  was  to 
conceal  most  heedfully  from  her  whom  he  most  loved 
and  trusted.  He  regretted,  deeply  and  bitterly,  the 
moral  cowardice  that  had  restrained  his  words,  when 
he  was  about  to  disclose  the  truth  to  Dorcas ;  but  pride, 
the  fear  of  losing  her  affection,  the  dread  of  universal 
scorn,  forbade  him  to  rectify  this  falsehood.  He  felt 
that,  for  leaving  Roger  Malvin,  he  deserved  no  censure. 
His  presence,  the  gratuitous  sacrifice  of  his  own  life, 
would  have  added  only  another,  and  a  needless  agony, 
to  the  last  moments  of  the  dying  man.  But  conceal- 
ment had  imparted  to  a  justifiable  act,  much  of  the 
secret  effect  of  guilt ;  and  Reuben,  while  reason  told 
him  that  he  had  done  right,  experienced,  in  no  small 
degree,  the  mental  horrors,  which  punish  the  perpe- 
trator of  undiscovered  crime.  By  a  certain  association 
of  ideas,  he  at  times  almost  imagined  himself  a  murderer. 
For  years,  also,  a  thought  would  occasionally  recur, 
which,  though  he  perceived  all  its  folly  and  extrava- 
gance, he  had  not  power  to  banish  from  his  mind ;  it 
was  a  haunting  and  torturing  fancy,  that  his  father-in-law 
was  yet  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  on  the  withered 
forest-leaves,  alive,  and  awaiting  his  pledged  assistance. 
These  mental  deceptions,  however,  came  and  went,  nor 
did  he  ever  mistake  them  for  realities ;  but  in  the  calm- 
est and  clearest  moods  of  his  mind,  he  was  conscious 
that  he  had  a  deep  vow  unredeemed,  and  that  an  un- 
buried  corpse  was  calling  to  him  out  of  the  wilderness. 
Yet  such  was  the  consequence  of  his  prevarication  that 
he  could  not  obey  the  call.  It  was  now  too  late  to 
require  the  assistance  of  Roger  Malvin's  friends,  in  per- 
forming his  long-deferred  sepulture;  and  superstitious 
fears,  of  which  none  were  more  susceptible  than  the 
people  of  the  outward  settlements,  forbade  Reuben  to 
go  alone.  Neither  did  he  know  where,  in  the  pathless 
and  illimitable  forest,  to  seek  that  smooth  and  lettered 
rock,  at  the  base  of  which  the  body  lay ;  his  remem- 
brance of  every  portion  of  his  travel  thence  was  indis- 
tinct, and  the  latter  part  had  left  no  impression  upon 


98     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

his  mind.  There  was,  however,  a  continual  impulse,  a 
voice  audible  only  to  himself,  commanding  him  to  go 
forth  and  redeem  his  vow;  and  he  had  a  strange  im- 
pression that,  were  he  to  make  the  trial,  he  would  be 
led  straight  to  Malvin's  bones.  But,  year  after  year, 
that  summons,  unheard  but  felt,  was  disobeyed.  His 
one  secret  thought  became  like  a  chain,  binding  down 
his  spirit,  and,  like  a  serpent,  gnawing  into  his  heart ; 
and  he  was  transformed  into  a  sad  and  downcast,  yet 
irritable  man. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years  after  their  marriage, 
changes  began  to  be- visible  in  the  external  prosperity 
of  Reuben  and  Dorcas.  The  only  riches  of  the  former 
had  been  his  stout  heart  and  strong  arm  ;  but  the  latter, 
her  father's  sole  heiress,  had  made  her  husband  master 
of  a  farm,  under  older  cultivation,  larger,  and  better 
stocked  than  most  of  the  frontier  establishments.  Reu- 
ben Bourne,  however,  was  a  neglectful  husbandman ; 
and  while  the  lands  of  the  other  settlers  became  annu- 
ally more  fruitful,  his  deteriorated  in  the  same  propor- 
tion. The  discouragements  to  agriculture  were  greatly 
lessened  by  the  cessation  of  Indian  war,  during  which 
men  held  the  plough  in  one  hand,  and  the  musket  in 
the  other ;  and  were  fortunate  if  the  products  of  their 
dangerous  labor  were  not  destroyed,  either  in  the  field 
or  in  the  barn,  by  the  savage  enemy.  But  Reuben  did 
not  profit  by  the  altered  condition  of  the  country ;  nor 
can  it  be  denied,  that  his  intervals  of  industrious  atten- 
tion to  his  affairs  were  but  scantily  rewarded  with  suc- 
cess. The  irritability,  by  which  he  had  recently  become 
distinguished,  was  another  cause  of  his  declining  pros- 
perity, as  it  occasioned  frequent  quarrels,  in  his  un- 
avoidable intercourse  with  the  neighboring  settlers. 
The  results  of  these  were  innumerable  law-suits;  for 
the  people  of  New  England,  in  the  earliest  stages  and 
wildest  circumstances  of  the  country,  adopted,  whenever 
attainable,  the  legal  mode  of  deciding  their  differences. 
To  be  brief,  the  world  did  not  go  well  with  Reuben 
Bourne,  and,  though  not  till  many  years  after  his  mar- 
riage, he  was  finally  a  ruined  man,  with  but  one  remaining 


ROGER    MALVIN'S    BURIAL          99 

expedient  against  the  evil  fate  that  had  pursued  him. 
It  was  to  throw  sunlight  into  some  deep  recess  of  the 
forest,  and  seek  subsistence  from  the  virgin  bosom  of 
the  wilderness. 

The  only  child  of  Reuben  and  Dorcas  was  a  son, 
now  arrived  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years,  beautiful  in 
youth,  and  giving  promise  of  a  glorious  manhood. 
He  was  peculiarly  qualified  for,  and  already  began 
to  excel  in,  the  wild  accomplishments  of  frontier  life. 
His  foot  was  fleet,  his  aim  true,  his  apprehension  quick, 
his  heart  glad  and  high ;  and  all,  who  anticipated  the 
return  of  Indian  war,  spoke  of  Cyrus  Bourne  as  a  future 
leader  in  the  land.  The  boy  was  loved  by  his  father 
with  a  deep  and  silent  strength,  as  if  whatever  wag 
good  and  najjpvin  his_Qwn  nature 
ferred_to  his  childT~carrvine:  his  a: 


carrying   his    affections   with    it. 

Even  Dorcas,  though  loving  and  beloved,  was  far  less 
dear  to  him  ;  for  Reuben's  secret  thoughts  and  insu- 
lated emotions  had  gradually  made  him  a  selfish  man ; 
and  he  could  no  longer  love  deeply,  except  where  he 
saw,  or  imagined,  some  rejection  or>.Hkeness  of  his 
own.^Birid.  In  Cyrus  he  recognized  whaF  lre~irad  hinT- 
self  been  in  other  days;  and  at  intervals  he  seemed 
to  partake  of  the  boy's  spirit,  and  to  be  revived  with 
a  fresh  and  happy  life.  Reuben  was  accompanied  by 
his  son  in  the  expedition,  for  the  purpose  of  selecting 
a  tract  of  land,  and  felling  and  burning  the  timber, 
which  necessarily  preceded  the  removal  of  the  house- 
hold gods.  Two  months  of  Autumn  were  thus  occu- 
pied ;  after  which  Reuben  Bourne  and  his  young  hunter 
returned,  to  spend  their  last  winter  in  the  settlements. 


It  was  early  in  the  month  of  May,  that  the  little 
family  snapped  asunder  whatever  tendrils  of  affections 
had  clung  to  inanimate  objects,  and  bade  farewell  to 
the  few,  who,  in  the  blight  of  fortune,  called  themselves 
their  friends.  The  sadness  of  the  parting  moment 
had,  to  each  of  the  pilgrims,  its  peculiar  alleviations. 
Reuben,  a  moody  man,  and  misanthropic  because  un- 


ioo  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

happy,  strode  onward,  with  his  usual  stern  brow,  and 
downcast  eye,  feeling  few  regrets,  and  disdaining  to 
acknowledge  any.  Dorcas,  while  she  wept  abundantly 
over  the  broken  ties  by  which  her  simple  and  affection- 
ate nature  had  bound  itself  to  everything,  felt  that  the 
inhabitants  of  her  inmost  heart  moved  on  with  her, 
and  that  all  else  would  be  supplied  wherever  she  might 
go.  And  the  boy  dashed  one  tear-drop  from  his  eye, 
and  thought  of  the  adventurous  pleasures  of  the  un- 
trodden forest.  Oh !  who,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  a  day- 
dream, has  not  wished  that  he  were  a  wanderer  in  a 
world  of  summer  wilderness  with  one  fair  and  gentle 
being  hanging  lightly  on  his  arm  ?  In  youth,  his  free 
and  exulting  step  would  know  no  barrier  but  the  roll- 
ing ocean  or  the  snow-topt  mountains ;  calmer  man- 
hood would  choose  a  home,  where  Nature  had  strewn 
a  double  wealth,  in  the  vale  of  some  transparent  stream ; 
and  when  hoary  age,  after  long,  long  years  of  that 
pure  life,  stole  on  and  found  him  there,  it  would  find 
him  the  father  of  a  race,  the  patriarch  of  a  people,  the 
founder  of  a  mighty  nation  yet  to  be.  When  /death. 
like  the  sweet  sleep  which  wewelcome  after  a  day  of 
happiness,  came  over  him,  tiisTaT'ttescendants  would 
mourn  over  the  venerateddusi,/  Enveloped .  by  tradi- 
tion in  mysterious  attributes,  th£  men  of  future  genera- 
tions would  call  him  godlike ;  and  remote  posterity 
would  see  him  standing,  dimly  glorious,  far  up  the  valley 
of  a  hundred  centuries ! 

The  tangled  and  gloomy  forest,  through  which  the 
personages  of  my  tale  were  wandering,  differed  widely 
from  the  dreamer's  Land  of  Fantasie;  yet  there  was 
something  in  their  way  of  life  that  Nature  asserted  as 
her  own ;  and  the  gnawing  cares,  which  went  with 
them  from  the  world,  were  all  that  now  obstructed 
their  happiness.  One  stout  and  shaggy  steed,  the 
bearer  of  all  their  wealth,  did  not  shrink  from  the 
added  weight  of  Dorcas;  although  her  hardy  breed- 
ing sustained  her,  during  the  larger  part  of  each  day's 
journey,  by  her  husband's  side.  Reuben  and  his  son, 
their  muskets  on  their  shoulders,  and  their  axes  slung 


ROGER   MALVIN'S   BURIAL        101 

behind  them,  kept  an  unwearied  pace,  each  watching 
with  a  hunter's  eye  for  the  game  that  supplied  their 
food.  When  hunger  bade,  they  halted  and  prepared 
their  meal  on  the  bank  of  some  unpolluted  forest- 
brook,  which,  as  they  knelt  down  with  thirsty  lips  to 
drink,  murmured  a  sweet  unwillingness,  like  a  maiden 
at  love's  first  kiss.  They  slept  beneath  a  hut  of 
branches,  and  awoke  at  peep  of  light,  refreshed  for 
the  toils  of  another  day.  Dorcas  and  the  boy  went  on 
joyously,  and  even  Reuben's  spirit  shone  at  intervals 
with  an  outward  gladness;  but  inwardly  there  was  a 
cold,  cold  sorrow,  which  he  compared  to  the  snow-drifts, 
lying  deep  in  the  glens  and  hollows  of  the  rivulets,  while 
the  leaves  were  brightly  green  above. 

Cyrus  Bourne  was  sufficiently  skilled  in  the  travel 
of  the  woods,  to  observe  that  his  father  did  not  adhere 
to  the  course  they  had  pursued  in  their  expedition  of 
the  preceding  autumn.  They  were  now  keeping  farther 
to  the  north,  striking  out  more  directly  from  the  settle- 
ments, and  into  a  region,  of  which  savage  beasts  and 
savage  men  were  as  yet  the  sole  possessors.  The  boy 
sometimes  hinted  his  opinions  upon  the  subject,  and 
Reuben  listened  attentively,  and  once  or  twice  altered 
the  direction  of  their  march  in  accordance  with  his 
son's  counsel.  But  having  so  done,  he  seemed  ill  at 
ease.  His  quick  and  wandering  glances  were  sent 
forward,  apparently  in  search  of  enemies  lurking  be- 
hind the  tree-trunks;  and  seeing  nothing  there,  he 
would  cast  his  eyes  backwards,  as  if  in  fear  of  some 
pursuer.  Cyrus,  perceiving  that  his  father  gradually 
resumed  the  old  direction,  forbore  to  interfere ;  nor, 
though  something  began  to  weigh  upon  his  heart,  did 
his  adventurous  nature  permit  him  to  regret  the  increased 
length  and  the  mystery  of  their  way. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day,  they  halted  and 
made  their  simple  encampment  nearly  an  hour  before 
sunset.  The  face  of  the  country,  for  the  last  few  miles, 
had  been  diversified  by  swells  of  land,  resembling  huge 
waves  of  a  petrified  sea ;  and  in  one  of  the  correspond- 
ing hollows,  a  wild  and  romantic  spot,  had  the  family 


102  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

reared  their  hut,  and  kindled  their  fire.  There  is  some- 
thing chilling,  and  yet  heart-warming,  in  the  thought  of 
three,  united  by  strong  bands  of  love,  and  insulated  from 
all  that  breathe  beside.  The  dark  and  gloomy  pines 
looked  down  upon  them,  and,  as  the  wind  swept 
through  their  tops,  a  pitying  sound  was  heard  in  the 
forest;  or  did  those  old  trees  groan,  in  fear  that  men 
were  come  to  lay  the  axe  to  their  roots  at  last  ?  Reuben 
and  his  son,  while  Dorcas  made  ready  their  meal,  pro- 
posed to  wander  out  in  search  of  game,  of  which  that 
day's  march  had  afforded  no  supply.  The_  boy,  promis- 
ing  not  to  quit  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment,  bounded 
ofT~wlth  a  step  as  light  and  elastic  as  that  of  the  deer 
he  hoped  to  slay ;  while  his  father,  feeling  a  transient 
happiness  as  he  gazed  after  him,  was  about  to  pursue 
an  opposite  direction.  Dorcas,  in  the  meanwhile,  had 
seated  herself  near  their  fire  of  fallen  branches,  upon 
the  moss-grown  and  mouldering  trunk  of  a  tree,  up- 
rooted years  before.  Her  employment,  diversified  by 
an  occasional  glance  at  the  pot,  now  beginning  to  sim- 
mer over  the  blaze,  was  the  perusal  of  the  current  year's 
Massachusetts  Almanac,  which,  with  the  exception  of 
an  old  black-letter  Bible,  comprised  all  the  literary 
wealth  of  the  family.  None  pay  a  greater  regard  to 
arbitrary  divisions  of  time,  than  those  who  are  excluded 
from  society ;  and  Dorcas  mentioned,  as  if  the  informa- 
tion were  of  importance,  that  it  was  now  the  twelfth  of 
May.  Her  husband  started. 

"  The  twelfth  of  May  !  I  should  remember  it  well," 
muttered  he,  while  many  thoughts  occasioned  a  momen- 
tary confusion  in  his  mind.  "  Where  am  I  ?  Whither 
am  I  wandering  ?  Where  did  I  leave  him  ? " 

Dorcas,  too  well  accustomed  to  her  husband's  way- 
ward moods  to  note  any  peculiarity  of  demeanor,  now 
laid  aside  the  Almanac,  and  addressed  him  in  that 
mournful  tone,  which  the  tender-hearted  appropriate 
to  griefs  long  cold  and  dead. 

"  It  was  near  this  time  of  the  month,  eighteen  years 
ago,  that  my  poor  father  left  this  world  for  a  better. 
He  had  a  kind  arm  to  hold  his  head,  and  a  kind  voice 


ROGER    MALVIN'S    BURIAL        103 

to  cheer  him,  Reuben,  in  his  last  moments;  and  the 
thought  of  the  faithful  care  you  took  of  him,  has  com- 
forted me  many  a  time  since.  Oh !  death  would  have 
been  awful  to  a  solitary  man,  in  a  wild  place  like  this ! " 

"Pray  Heaven,  Dorcas,"  said  Reuben,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "  pray  Heaven,  that  neither  of  us  three  dies  soli- 
tary, and  lies  unburied,  in  this  howling  wilderness ! " 
And  he  hastened  away,  leaving  her  to  watch  the  fire, 
beneath  the  gloomy  pines. 

Reuben  Bourne's  rapid  pace  gradually  slackened,  as  , 

the  pang,  unintentionally  inflicted  by  the  words  of  Dor-  i  *&*  /*-T l 
caSi  became  less  acute.  Many  strange  reflections,'  how- 
ever, thronged  upon  him ;  and,  straying  onward,  rather 
like  a  sleep-walker  than  a  hunter,  it  was  attributable  to 
no  care  of  his  own,  that  his  devious  course  kepJLJumJn. 
>  theAdcinity  of  the  encampment.  His  steps  were  imper- 
ceptibly led  almost  in  a  circle,  nor  did  he  observe  that 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  tract  of  land  heavily  timbered, 
but  not  with  pine  trees.  The  place  of  the  latter  was 
here  supplied  by  oaks,  and  other  of  the  harder  woods ; 
and  around  their  roots  clustered  a  dense  and  bushy 
undergrowth,  leaving,  however,  barren  spaces  between 
the  trees,  thick-strewn  with  withered  leaves.  Whenever 
the  rustling  of  the  branches,  or  the  creaking  of  the 
trunks,  made  a  sound,  as  if  the  forest  were  waking 
from  slumber,  Reuben  instinctively  raised  the  musket 
that  rested  on  his  arm,  and  cast  a  quick,  sharp  glance 
on  every  side ;  but,  convinced  by  a  partial  observation 
that  no  animal  was  near,  he  would  again  give  himself 
up  to  his  thoughts.  He  was  musing  on  the  strange 
influence  that  had  led  him  away  from  his  premeditated 
course,  and  so  far  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness. 
Unable  to  penetrate  iQ_the.-^£cre.L^lace..Qf_hJs_^QulT- 
where  his  motives  lay  hidden,  he  believed  that  a  super- 
natural voice  had  called  him  onward,  and  that  a  super- 
natural power  had  obstructed  his  retreat.  He  trusted 
that  it  was  Heaven's  intent  to  afford  him  an  opportu- 
nity of  expiating  his  sin ;  he  hoped  that  he  might  find 
the  bones,  so  long  unburied ;  and  that,  having  laid  the 
earth  over  them,  peace  would  throw  its  sunlight  into  the 


io4  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

sepulchre  of  his  heart.  From  these  thoughts  he  was 
aroused  by  a  rustling  in  the  forest,  at  some  distance 
from  the  spot  to  which  he  had  wandered.  Perceiving 
the  motion  of  some  object  behind  a  thick  veil  of  under- 
growth, he  fired,  with  the  instinct  of  a  hunter  and  the 
aim  of  a  practised  marksman.  A  low  moan,  which  told 
his  success,  and  by  which  even  animals  can  express 
their  dying  agony,  was  unheeded  by  Reuben  Bourne. 
What  were  the  recollections  now  breaking  upon  him  ? 

The  thicket  into  which  Reuben  had  fired  was  near 
the  summit  of  a  swell  of  land,  and  was  clustered  around 
the  base  of  a  rock,  which,  in  the  shape  and  smoothness 
of  one  of  its  surfaces,  was  not  unlike  a  gigantic  grave- 
stone. As  if  reflected  in  a  mirror,  its  likeness  was  in 
Reuben's  memory.  He  even  recognized  the  veins 
which  seemed  to  form  an  inscription  in  forgotten  char- 
acters ;  everything  remained  the  same,  except  that  a 
thick  covert  of  bushes  shrouded  the  lower  part  of  the 
rock,  and  would  have  hidden  Roger  Malvin,  had  he 
still  been  sitting  there.  Yet,  in  the  next  moment,  Reu- 
ben's eye  was  caught  by  another  change,  that  time  had 
effected,  since  he  last  stood,  where  he  was  now  standing 
again,  behind  the  earthy  roots  of  the  uptorn  tree.  The 
sapling,  to  which  he  had  bound  the  blood-stained  sym- 
bol of  his  vow,  had  increased  and  strengthened  into  an 
oak,  far  indeed  from  its  maturity,  but  with  no  mean 
spread  of  shadowy  branches.  There  was  one  singular- 
ity observable  in  this  tree,  which  made  Reuben  tremble. 
The  middle  and  lower  branches  were  in  luxuriant  life, 
and  an  excess  of  vegetation  had  fringed  the  trunk, 
almost  to  the  ground ;  but  a  blight  had  apparently 
stricken  the  upper  part  of  the  oak,  and  the  very  top- 
most bough  was  withered,  sapless,  and  utterly  dead. 
Reuben  remembered  how  the  little  banner  had  fluttered 
on  that  topmost  bough,  when  it  was  green  and  lovely, 
eighteen  years  before.  Whose  guilt  had  blasted  it? 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

Dorcas,  after  the  departure  of  the  two  hunters,  con- 
tinued her  preparations  for  their  evening  repast.  Her 
sylvan  table  was  the  moss-covered  trunk  of  a  large 


ROGER    MALVIN'S    BURIAL        105 

fallen  tree,  on  the  broadest  part  of  which  she  had 
spread  a  snow-white  cloth,  and  arranged  what  were  left 
of  the  bright  pewter  vessels  that  had  been  her  pride 
in  the  settlements.  It  had  a  strange  aspect  —  that  one 
little  spot  of  homely  comfort,  in  the  desolate  heart  of 
Nature.  The  sunshine  yet  lingered  upon  the  higher 
branches  of  the  trees  that  grew  on  rising  ground ;  but 
the  shadows  of  evening  had  deepened  into  the  hollow, 
where  the  encampment  was  made;  and  the  firelight 
began  to  redden  as  it  gleamed  up  the  tall  trunks  of  the 
pines,  or  hovered  on  the  dense  and  obscure  mass  of 
foliage  that  circled  round  the  spot.  The  heart  of  Dor- 
cas was  not  sad ;  for  she  felt  it  was  better  to  journey  in 
the  wilderness,  with  two  whom  she  loved,  than  to  be  a 
lonely  woman  in  a  crowd  that  cared  not  for  her.  As 
she  busied  herself  in  arranging  seats  of  mouldering 
wood,  covered  with  leaves,  for  Reuben  and  her  son,  her 
voice  danced  through  the  gloomy  forest,  in  the  measure 
of  a  song  that  she  had  learned  in  youth.  The  rude 
melody,  the  production  of  a  bard  who  won  no  name, 
was  descriptive  of  a  winter  evening  in  a  frontier  cottage, 
when,  secured  from  savage  inroad  by  the  high-piled 
snow-drifts,  the  family  rejoiced  by  their  own  fireside. 
The  whole  song  possessed  that  nameless  charm,  pecul- 
iar to  unborrowed  thought ;  but  four  continually  recur- 
ring lines  shone  out  from  the  rest,  like  the  blaze  of  the 
hearth  whose  joys  they  celebrated.  Into  them,  work- 
ing magic  with  a  few  simple  words,  the  poet  had  in- 
stilled the  very  essence  of  domestic  love  and  household 
happiness,  and  they  were  poetry  and  picture  joined  in 
one.  As  Dorcas  sang,  the  walls  of  her  forsaken  home 
seemed  to  encircle  her ;  she  no  longer  saw  the  gloomy 
pines ;  nor  heard  the  wind,  which  still,  as  she  began 
each  verse,  sent  a  heavy  breath  through  the  branches, 
and  died  away  in  a  hollow  moan,  from  the  burthen  of 
the  song.  She  was  aroused  by  the  report  of  a  gun,  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  encampment ;  and  either  the  sudden 
sound,  or  her  loneliness  by  the  glowing  fire,  caused  her 
to  tremble  violently.  The  next  moment,  she  laughed  in 
the  pride  of  a  mother's  heart. 


io6  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  My  beautiful  young  hunter !  my  boy  has  slain  a 
deer !  "  she  exclaimed,  recollecting  that,  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  shot  proceeded,  Cyrus  had  gone  to 
the  chase. 

She  waited  a  reasonable  time,  to  hear  her  son's  light 
step  bounding  over  the  rustling  leaves,  to  tell  of  his 
success.  But  he  did  not  immediately  appear,  and  she 
sent  her  cheerful  voice  among  the  trees  in  search  of 
him. 

"  Cyrus  !    Cyrus  !  " 

His  coming  was  still  delayed,  and  she  determined, 
as  the  report  of  the  gun  had  apparently  been  very 
near,  to  seek  for  him  in  person.  Her  assistance,  also, 
might  be  necessary  in  bringing  home  the  venison, 
which  she  flattered  herself  he  had  obtained.  She  there- 
fore set  forward,  directing  her  steps  by  the  long-past 
sound,  and  singing  as  she  went,  in  order  that  the  boy 
might  be  aware  of  her  approach,  and  run  to  meet  her. 
From  behind  the  trunk  of  every  tree,  and  from  every 
hiding  place  in  the  thick  foliage  of  the  undergrowth, 
she  hoped  to  discover  the  countenance  of  her  son, 
laughing  with  the  sportive  mischief  that  is  born  of 
affection.  The  sun  was  now  beneath  the  horizon,  and 
the  light  that  came  down  among  the  trees  was  suffi- 
ciently dim  to  create  many  illusions  in  her  expecting 
fancy.  Several  times  she  seemed  indistinctly  to  see 
his  face  gazing  out  from  among  the  leaves ;  and  once 
she  imagined  that  he  stood  beckoning  to  her,  at  the 
base  of  a  craggy  rock.  Keeping  her  eyes  on  this 
object,  however,  it  proved  to  be  no  more  than  the 
trunk  of  an  oak,  fringed  to  the  very  ground  with  little 
branches,  one  of  which,  thrust  out  farther  than  the  rest, 
was  shaken  by  the  breeze.  Making  her  way  round  the 
foot  of  the  rock,  she  suddenly  found  herself  close  to 
her  husband,  who  had  approached  in  another  direction. 
Leaning  upon  the  butt  of  his  gun,  the  muzzle  of  which 
rested  upon  the  withered  leaves,  he  was  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  some  object  at  his  feet. 

"  How  is  this,  Reuben  ?  Have  you  slain  the  deer, 
and  fallen  asleep  over  him  ?  "  exclaimed  Dorcas,  laugh- 


ROGER   MALVIN'S   BURIAL        107 

ing   cheerfully,  on  her  first  slight  observation  of   his 
posture  and  appearance. 

He  stirred  not,  neither  did  he  turn  his  eyes  towards 
her ;  and  a  cold,  shuddering  fear,  indefinite  in  its  source 
and  object,  began  to  creep  into  her  blood.  She  now 
perceived  that  her  husband's  face  was  ghastly  pale,  and 
his  features  were  rigid,  as  if  incapable  of  assuming  any 
other  expression  than  the  strong  despair  which  had  hard- 
ened upon  them.  He  gave  not  the  slightest  evidence 
that  he  was  aware  of  her  approach. 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Reuben,  speak  to  me ! " 
cried  Dorcas,  and  the  strange  sound  of  her  own  voice 
affrighted  her  even  more  than  the  dead  silence. 

Her  husband  started,  stared  into  her  face ;  drew  her 
to  the  front  of  the  rock,  and  pointed  with  his  finger. 

Oh !  there  lay  the  boy,  asleep,  but  dreamless  upon 
the  fallen  forest-leaves !  his  cheek  rested  upon  his  arm, 
his  curled  locks  were  thrown  back  from  his  brow,  his 
limbs  were  slightly  relaxed.  Had  a  sudden  weariness 
overcome  the  youthful  hunter  ?  Would  his  mother's 
voice  arouse  him  ?  She  knew  that  it  was  death. 

"This  broad  rock  is  the  gravestone  of  your  near 
kindred,  Dorcas,"  said  her  husband.  "  Your  tears  will 
fall  at  once  over  your  father  and  your  son." 

She  heard  him  not.  With  one  wild  shriek  that 
seemed  to  force  its  way  from  the  sufferer's  inmost 
soul,  she  sank  insensible  by  the  side  of  her  dead  boy. 
At  that  moment  the  withered  topmost  bough  of  the  oak 
loosened  itself  in  the  stilly  air,  and  fell  in  soft,  light 
fragments  upon  the  rock,  upon  the  leaves,  upon  Reuben, 
upon  his  wife  and  child,  and  upon  Roger  Marvin's 
bones.  Then  Reuben's  heart  was  strickery  and  the 
tears  gushed  out  like  water  from  a  rock.  The  vow 
that  the  wounded  youth  had  made,  the  blighted  man  « 
had  come  to  redeem.  ,  His  sin  was  expiated,  the  curse  &" 
was  gone  from  him  :/and  in  the  hour  when  he  had  shed 
blood  dearer  to  hinf  than  his  own,  a  prayer,  the  first  for 
years,  went  up  to  Heaven  from  the  lips  of  Reuben 
Bourne. 


P.'S  CORRESPONDENCE 

MY  unfortunate  friend  P.  has  lost  the  thread  of  his 
life  by  the  interposition  of  long  intervals  of  par- 
tially disordered  reason.  The  past  and  present  are 
jumbled  together  in  his  mind,  in  a  manner  often  produc- 
tive of  curious  results ;  and  which  will  be  better  under- 
stood after  the  perusal  of  the  following  letter,  than  from 
any  description  that  I  could  give.  The  poor  fellow, 
without  once  stirring  from  the  little  white-washed,  iron- 
grated  room,  to  which  he  alludes  in  his  first  paragraph, 
is  nevertheless  a  great  traveller,  and  meets,  in  his  wan- 
derings, a  variety  of  personages,  who  have  long  ceased 
to  be  visible  to  any  eye  save  his  own.  In  my  opinion  all 
this  is  not  so  much  a  delusion  as  a  partly  wilful  and 
partly  involuntary  sport  of  the  imagination,  to  which  his 
disease  has  imparted  such  morbid  energy  that  he  be- 
holds these  spectral  scenes  and  characters  with  no  less 
distinctness  than  a  play  upon  the  stage,  and  with  some- 
what more  of  illusive  credence.  Many  of  his  letters  are 
in  my  possession,  some  based  upon  the  same  vagary  as 
the  present  one,  and  others  upon  hypotheses  not  a  whit 
short  of  it  in  absurdity.  The  whole  form  a  series  of 
correspondence,  which,  should  fate  seasonably  remove 
my  poor  friend  from  what  is  to  him  the  world  of  moon- 
shine, I  promise  myself  a  pious  pleasure  in  editing  for 
the  public  eye.  P.  had  always  a  hankering  after  liter- 
ary reputation,  and  has  made  more  than  one  unsuccess- 
ful effort  to  achieve  it.  It  would  not  be  a  little  odd,  if, 
after  missing  his  object  while  seeking  it  by  the  light  of 
reason,  he  should  prove  to  have  stumbled  upon  it  in  his 
misty  excursions  beyond  the  limits  of  sanity. 

LONDON,  February  25,  1845. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

Old  associations  cling  to  the  mind  with  astonishing 
tenacity.     Daily  custom  grows  up  about  us  like  a  stone 
1 08 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  109 

wall,  and  consolidates  itself  into  almost  as  material  an 
entity  as  mankind's  strongest  architecture.  It  is  some- 
times a  serious  question  with  me,  whether  ideas  be  not 
really  visible  and  tangible,  and  endowed  with  all  the 
other  qualities  of  matter.  Sitting  as  I  do,  at  this 
moment,  in  my  hired  apartment,  writing  beside  the 
hearth,  over  which  hangs  a  print  of  Queen  Victoria  — 
listening  to  the  muffled  roar  of  the  world's  metropolis, 
and  with  a  window  at  but  five  paces  distant,  through 
which,  whenever  I  please,  I  can  gaze  out  on  actual 
London — with  all  this  positive  certainty  as  to  my 
whereabouts,  what  kind  of  notion,  do  you  think,  is  just 
now  perplexing  my  brain  ?  Why  —  would  you  believe 
it  ?  —  that,  all  this  time,  I  am  still  an  inhabitant  of  that 
wearisome  little  chamber,  —  that  white-washed  little 
chamber,  —  that  little  chamber  with  its  one  small  win- 
dow, across  which,  from  some  inscrutable  reason  of 
taste  or  convenience,  my  landlord  had  placed  a  row  of 
iron  bars  —  that  same  little  chamber,  in  short,  whither 
your  kindness  has  so  often  brought  you  to  visit  me ! 
Will  no  length  of  time,  or  breadth  of  space,  enfranchise 
me  from  that  unlovely  abode  ?  I  travel,  but  it  seems  to 
be  like  the  snail,  with  my  house  upon  my  head.  Ah, 
well !  I  am  verging,  I  suppose,  on  that  period  of  life 
when  present  scenes  and  events  make  but  feeble  impres- 
sions, in  comparison  with  those  of  yore ;  so  that  I  must 
reconcile  myself  to  be  more  and  more  the  prisoner  of 
Memory,  who  merely  lets  me  hop  about  a  little,  with  her 
chain  around  my  leg. 

My  letters  of  introduction  have  been  of  the  utmost 
service,  enabling  me  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  sev- 
eral distinguished  characters,  who,  until  now,  have 
seemed  as  remote  from  the  sphere  of  my  personal  inter- 
course as  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  or  Ben  Jon- 
son's  compotators  at  the  Mermaid.  One  of  the  first  of 
which  I  availed  myself,  was  the  letter  to  Lord  Byron. 
I  found  his  lordship  looking  much  older  than  I  had 
anticipated  ;  although  —  considering  his  former  irregu- 
larities of  life,  and  the  various  wear  and  tear  of  his  con- 
stitution —  not  older  than  a  man  on  the  verge  of  sixty 


no  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

reasonably  may  look.  But  I  had  invested  his  earthly 
frame,  in  my  imagination,  with  the  poet's  spiritual  im- 
mortality. He  wears  a  brown  wig,  very  luxuriantly 
curled,  and  extending  down  over  his  forehead.  The 
expression  of  his  eyes  is  concealed  by  spectacles.  His 
early  tendency  to  obesity  having  increased,  Lord  Byron 
is  now  enormously  fat ;  so  fat  as  to  give  the  impression 
of  a  person  quite  overladen  with  his  own  flesh,  and  with- 
out sufficient  vigor  to  diffuse  his  personal  life  through 
the  great  mass  of  corporeal  substance,  which  weighs 
upon  him  so  cruelly.  You  gaze  at  the  mortal  heap; 
and,  while  it  fills  your  eye  with  what  purports  to  be 
Byron,  you  murmur  within  yourself  —  "For  Heaven's 
sake,  w~here  is  he  ? "  Were  I  disposed  to  be  caustic,  I 
might  consider  this  mass  of  earthly  matter  as  the  symbol, 
in  a  material  shape,  of  those  evil  habits  and  carnal  vices 
which  unspiritualize  man's  nature,  and  clog  up  his 
avenues  of  communication  with  the  better  life.  But 
this  would  be  too  harsh ;  and  besides,  Lord  Byron's 
morals  have  been  improving,  while  his  outward  man 
has  swollen  to  such  unconscionable  circumference. 
Would  that  he  were  leaner ;  for,  though  he  did  me  the 
honor  to  present  his  hand,  yet  it  was  so  puffed  out  with 
alien  substance,  that  I  could  not  feel  as  if  I  had  touched 
the  hand  that  wrote  Childe  Harold. 

On  my  entrance  his  lordship  had  apologized  for  not 
rising  to  receive  me,  on  the  sufficient  plea  that  the  gout, 
for  several  years  past,  had  taken  up  its  constant  resi- 
dence in  his  right  foot ;  which,  accordingly,  was  swathed 
in  many  rolls  of  flannel,  and  deposited  upon  a  cushion. 
The  other  foot  was  hidden  in  the  drapery  of  his  chair. 
Do  you  recollect  whether  Byron's  right  or  left  foot  was 
the  deformed  one  ? 

The  noble  poet's  reconciliation  with  Lady  Byron  is 
now,  as  you  are  aware,  of  ten  years'  standing ;  nor  does 
it  exhibit,  I  am  assured,  any  symptom  of  breach  or  frac- 
ture. They  are  said  to  be,  if  not  a  happy,  at  least  a 
contented,  or,  at  all  events,  a  quiet  couple,  descending 
the  slope  of  life  with  that  tolerable  degree  of  mutual 
support,  which  will  enable  them  to  come  easily  and  com- 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  in 

fortably  to  the  bottom.  It  is  pleasant  to  reflect  how 
entirely  the  poet  has  redeemed  his  youthful  errors,  in 
this  particular.  Her  ladyship's  influence,  it  rejoices  me 
to  add,  has  been  productive  of  the  happiest  results  upon 
Lord  Byron  in  a  religious  point  of  view.  He  now  com- 
bines the  most  rigid  tenets  of  Methodism  with  the  ultra 
doctrines  of  the  Puseyites  :  the  former  being  perhaps 
due  to  the  convictions  wrought  upon  his  mind  by  his 
noble  consort ;  while  the  latter  are  the  embroidery  and 
picturesque  illumination,  demanded  by  his  imaginative 
character.  Much  of  whatever  expenditure  his  increas- 
ing habits  of  thrift  continue  to  allow  him,  is  bestowed  in 
the  reparation  or  beautifying  of  places  of  worship ;  and 
this  nobleman,  whose  name  was  once  considered  a  syno- 
nym of  the  foul  fiend,  is  now  all  but  canonized  as  a 
saint  in  many  pulpits  of  the  metropolis  and  elsewhere. 
In  politics,  Lord  Byron  is  an  uncompromising  conservative, 
and  loses  no  opportunity,  whether  in  the  House  of  Lords 
or  in  private  circles,  of  denouncing  and  repudiating  the 
mischievous  and  anarchical  notions  of  his  earlier  day. 
Nor  does  he  fail  to  visit  similar  sins,  in  other  people, 
with  the  sincerest  vengeance  which  his  somewhat 
blunted  pen  is  capable  of  inflicting.  Southey  and  he  are 
on  the  most  intimate  terms.  You  are  aware  that  some 
little  time  before  the  death  of  Moore,  Byron  caused  that 
brilliant  but  reprehensible  man  to  be  ejected  from  his 
house.  Moore  took  the  insult  so  much  to  heart,  that  it  is 
said  to  have  been  one  great  cause  of  the  fit  of  illness 
which  brought  him  to  the  grave.  Others  pretend  that  the 
Lyrist  died  in  a  very  happy  state  of  mind,  singing  one  of 
his  own  sacred  melodies,  and  expressing  his  belief  that  it 
would  be  heard  within  the  gate  of  paradise,  and  gain 
him  instant  and  honorable  admittance.  I  wish  he  may 
have  found  it  so. 

I  failed  not,  as  you  may  suppose,  in  the  course  of 
conversation  with  Lord  Byron,  to  pay  the  meed  of  hom- 
age due  to  a  mighty  poet,  by  allusions  to  passages  in 
Childe  Harold,  and  Manfred,  and  Don  Juan,  which 
have  made  so  large  a  portion  of  the  music  of  my  life. 
My  words,  whether  apt  or  otherwise,  were  at  least 


ii2    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

warm  with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  worthy  to  discourse 
of  immortal  poesy.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  they 
did  not  go  precisely  to  the  right  spot.  I  could  perceive 
that  there  was  some  mistake  or  other,  and  was  not  a 
little  angry  with  myself,  and  ashamed  of  my  abortive 
attempt  to  throw  back,  from  my  own  heart  to  the  gifted 
author's  ear,  the  echo  of  those  strains  that  have  re- 
sounded throughout  the  world.  But,  by  and  by,  the 
secret  peeped  quietly  out.  Byron  —  I  have  the  infor- 
mation from  his  own  lips,  so  that  you  need  not  hesitate 
to  repeat  it  in  literary  circles — Byron  is  preparing  a 
new  edition  of  his  complete  works,  carefully  corrected, 
expurgated,  and  amended,  in  accordance  with  his  pres- 
ent creed  of  taste,  morals,  politics,  and  religion.  It  so 
happened,  that  the  very  passages  of  highest  inspiration, 
to  which  I  had  alluded,  were  among  the  condemned 
and  rejected  rubbish,  which  it  is  his  purpose  to  cast 
into  the  gulf  of  oblivion.  To  whisper  you  the  truth,  it 
appears  to  me  that  his  passions  having  burnt  out,  the 
extinction  of  their  vivid  and  riotous  flame  has  deprived 
Lord  Byron  of  the  illumination  by  which  he  not  merely 
wrote,  but  was  enabled  to  feel  and  comprehend  what  he 
had  written.  Positively,  he  no  longer  understands  his 
own  poetry. 

This  became  very  apparent  on  his  favoring  me  so  far 
as  to  read  a  few  specimens  of  Don  Juan  in  the  moralized 
version.  Whatever  is  licentious  —  whatever  disrespect- 
ful to  the  sacred  mysteries  of  our  faith  —  whatever 
morbidly  melancholic,  or  splenetically  sportive  —  what- 
ever assails  settled  constitutions  of  government,  or  sys- 
tems of  society  —  whatever  could  wound  the  sensibility 
of  any  mortal,  except  a  pagan,  a  republican,  or  a  dis- 
senter—  has  been  unrelentingly  blotted  out,  and  its 
place  supplied  by  unexceptionable  verses,  in  his  lord- 
ship's later  style.  You  may  judge  how  much  of  the 
poem  remains  as  hitherto  published.  The  result  is  not 
so  good  as  might  be  wished ;  in  plain  terms,  it  is  a  very 
sad  affair  indeed;  for  though  the  torches  kindled  in 
Tophet  have  been  extinguished,  they  leave  an  abomi- 
nably ill  odor,  and  are  succeeded  by  no  glimpses  of  haL 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  113 

lowed  fire.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  nevertheless,  that  this 
attempt,  on  Lord  Byron's  part,  to  atone  for  his  youthful 
errors,  will  at  length  induce  the  Dean  of  Westminster 
or  whatever  churchman  is  concerned,  to  allow  Thor- 
waldsen's  statue  of  the  poet  its  due  niche  in  the  grand 
old  Abbey.  His  bones,  you  know,  when  brought  from 
Greece,  were  denied  sepulture  among  those  of  his  tune- 
ful brethren  there. 

What  a  vile  slip  of  the  pen  was  that!  How  absurd 
in  me  to  talk  about  burying  the  bones  of  Byron,  whom  I 
have  just  seen  alive,  and  encased  in  a  big,  round  bulk 
of  flesh !  But,  to  say  the  truth,  a  prodigiously  fat  man 
always  impresses  me  as  a  kind  of  hobgoblin ;  in  the 
very  extravagance  of  his  mortal  system,  I  find  some- 
thing akin  to  the  immateriality  of  a  ghost.  And  then 
that  ridiculous  old  story  darted  into  my  mind,  how  that 
Byron  died  of  fever  at  Missolonghi,  above  twenty  years 
ago.  More  and  more  I  recognize  that  we  dwell  in  a 
world  of  shadows ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  hold  it  hardly 
worth  the  trouble  to  attempt  a  distinction  between 
shadows  in  the  mind  and  shadows  out  of  it.  If  there 
be  any  difference,  the  former  are  rather  the  more  sub- 
stantial. 

Only  think  of  my  good  fortune!  The  venerable 
Robert  Burns  —  now,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  his  eighty- 
seventh  year  —  happens  to  be  making  a  visit  to  Lon- 
don, as  if  on  purpose  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of 
grasping  him  by  the  hand.  For  upwards  of  twenty 
years  past  he  has  hardly  left  his  quiet  cottage  in  Ayr- 
shire for  a  single  night,  and  has  only  been  drawn  hither 
now  by  the  irresistible  persuasions  of  all  the  distin- 
guished men  in  England.  They  wish  to  celebrate  the 
patriarch's  birthday  by  a  festival.  It  will  be  the  great- 
est literary  triumph  on  record.  Pray  Heaven  the  little 
spirit  of  life  within  the  aged  bard's  bosom  may  not  be 
extinguished  in  the  lustre  of  that  hour!  I  have  already 
had  the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  him,  at  the  British 
Museum,  where  he  was  examining  a  collection  of  his 
own  unpublished  letters,  interspersed  with  songs,  which 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  biographers. 


ii4  MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

Poh !  Nonsense !  What  am  I  thinking  of !  How 
should  Burns  have  been  embalmed  in  biography  when 
he  is  still  a  hearty  old  man ! 

The  figure  of  the  bard  is  tall,  and  in  the  highest 
degree  reverend ;  nor  the  less  so,  that  it  is  much  bent 
by  the  burthen  of  time.  His  white  hair  floats  like  a 
snow-drift  around  his  face,  in  which  are  seen  the  fur- 
rows of  intellect  and  passion,  like  the  channels  of  head- 
long torrents  that  have  foamed  themselves  away.  The 
old  gentleman  is  in  excellent  preservation,  considering 
his  time  of  life.  He  has  that  crickety  sort  of  liveliness 
—  I  mean  the  cricket's  humor  of  chirping  for  any  cause 
or  none  —  which  is  perhaps  the  most  favorable  mood 
that  can  befall  extreme  old  age.  Our  pride  forbids  us 
to  desire  it  for  ourselves,  although  we  perceive  it  to  be 
a  beneficence  of  nature  in  the  case  of  others.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  it  in  Burns.  It  seems  as  if  his  ardent 
heart  and  brilliant  imagination  had  both  burnt  down  to 
the  last  embers,  leaving  only  a  little  flickering  flame 
in  one  corner,  which  keeps  dancing  upward  and  laugh- 
ing all  by  itself.  He  is  no  longer  capable  of  pathos. 
At  the  request  of  Allan  Cunningham,  he  attempted  to 
sing  his  own  song  to  Mary  in  Heaven ;  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  feeling  of  those  verses,  so  profoundly  true, 
and  so  simply  expressed,  was  entirely  beyond  the  scope 
of  his  present  sensibilities ;  and  when  a  touch  of  it  did 
partially  awaken  him,  the  tears  immediately  gushed 
into  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  broke  into  a  tremulous 
cackle.  And  yet  he  but  indistinctly  knew  wherefore 
he  was  weeping.  Ah !  he  must  not  think  again  of  Mary 
in  Heaven,  until  he  shake  off  the  dull  impediment  of 
time,  and  ascend  to  meet  her  there. 

Burns  then  began  to  repeat  Tam  O'Shanter,  but  was 
so  tickled  with  its  wit  and  humor  —  of  which,  however, 
I  did  suspect  he  had  but  a  traditionary  sense  —  that  he 
soon  burst  into  a  fit  of  chirruping  laughter,  succeeded 
by  a  cough,  which  brought  this  not  very  agreeable 
exhibition  to  a  close.  On  the  whole,  I  would  rather  not 
have  witnessed  it.  It  is  a  satisfactory  idea,  however, 
that  the  last  forty  years  of  the  peasant-poet's  life  have 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  115 

been  passed  in  competence  and  perfect  comfort.  Hav- 
ing been  cured  of  his  bardic  improvidence  for  many  a 
day  past,  and  grown  as  attentive  to  the  main  chance  as 
a  canny  Scotsman  should  be,  he  is  now  considered  to  be 
quite  well  off,  as  to  pecuniary  circumstances.  This,  I 
suppose,  is  worth  having  lived  so  long  for. 

I  took  occasion  to  inquire  of  some  of  the  country- 
men of  Burns  in  regard  to  the  health  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  His  condition,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  remains  the 
same  as  for  ten  years  past ;  it  is  that  of  a  hopeless 
paralytic,  palsied  not  more  in  body  than  in  those  nobler 
attributes  of  which  the  body  is  the  instrument.  And 
thus  he  vegetates  from  day  to  day,  and  from  year  to 
year,  at  that  splendid  fantasy  of  Abbotsford,  which 
grew  out  of  his  brain,  and  became  a  symbol  of  the 
great  romancer's  tastes,  feelings,  studies,  prejudices, 
and  modes  of  intellect.  Whether  in  verse,  prose,  or 
architecture,  he  could  achieve  but  one  thing,  although 
that  one  in  infinite  variety.  There  he  reclines,  on  a 
couch  in  his  library,  and  is  said  to  spend  whole  hours 
of  every  day  in  dictating  tales  to  an  amanuensis.  To 
an  imaginary  amanuensis ;  for  it  is  not  deemed  worth 
any  one's  trouble,  now,  to  take  down  what  flows  from 
that  once  brilliant  fancy,  every  image  of  which  was 
formerly  worth  gold,  and  capable  of  being  coined.  Yet, 
Cunningham,  who  has  lately  seen  him,  assures  me  that 
there  is  now  and  then  a  touch  of  the  genius ;  a  striking 
combination  of  incident,  or  a  picturesque  trait  of  char- 
acter, such  as  no  other  man  alive  could  have  hit  off ;  a 
glimmer  from  that  ruined  mind,  as  if  the  sun  had  sud- 
denly flashed  on  a  half-rusted  helmet  in  the  gloom  of  an 
ancient  hall.  But  the  plots  of  these  romances  become 
inextricably  confused ;  the  characters  melt  into  one  an- 
other; and  the  tale  loses  itself  like  the  course  of  a 
stream  flowing  through  muddy  and  marshy  ground. 

For  my  part,  I  can  hardly  regret  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  lost  his  consciousness  of  outward  things,  be- 
fore his  works  went  out  of  vogue.  It  was  good  that  he 
should  forget  his  fame,  rather  than  that  fame  should 
first  have  forgotten  him.  Were  he  still  a  writer,  and 


n6   MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

as  brilliant  a  one  as  ever,  he  could  no  longer  maintain 
anything  like  the  same  position  in  literature.  The 
world,  nowadays,  requires  a  more  earnest  purpose,  a 
deeper  moral,  and  a  closer  and  homelier  truth,  than  he 
was  qualified  to  supply  it  with.  Yet  who  can  be,  to  the 
present  generation,  even  what  Scott  has  been  to  the 
past  ?  Bulwer  nauseates  me ;  he  is  the  very  pimple  of 
the  age's  humbug.  There  is  no  hope  of  the  public,  so 
long  as  he  retains  an  admirer,  a  reader,  or  a  publisher. 
I  had  expectations  from  a  young  man  —  one  Dickens  — 
who  published  a  few  magazine  articles,  very  rich  in 
humor,  and  not  without  symptoms  of  genuine  pathos ; 
but  the  poor  fellow  died,  shortly  after  commencing  an 
odd  series  of  sketches,  entitled,  I  think,  the  Pickwick 
Papers.  Not  impossibly,  the  world  has  lost  more  than 
it  dreams  of,  by  the  untimely  death  of  this  Mr.  Dickens. 
Whom  do  you  think  I  met  in  Pall  Mall,  the  other  day  ? 
You  would  not  hit  it  in  ten  guesses.  Why,  no  less  a 
man  than  Napoleon  Bonaparte  !  —  or  all  that  is  now  left 
of  him  —  that  is  to  say,  the  skin,  bones,  and  corporeal 
substance,  little  cocked  hat,  green  coat,  white  breeches, 
and  small  sword,  which  are  still  known  by  his  redoubt- 
able name.  He  was  attended  only  by  two  policemen, 
who  walked  quietly  behind  the  phantasm  of  the  old  ex- 
Emperor,  appearing  to  have  no  duty  in  regard  to  him, 
except  to  see  that  none  of  the  light-fingered  gentry 
should  possess  themselves  of  the  star  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor.  Nobody,  save  myself,  so  much  as  turned  to 
look  after  him ;  nor,  it  grieves  me  to  confess,  could  even 
I  contrive  to  muster  up  any  tolerable  interest,  even  by 
all  that  the  warlike  spirit,  formerly  manifested  within 
that  now  decrepit  shape,  had  wrought  upon  our  globe. 
There  is  no  surer  method  of  annihilating  the  magic  in- 
fluence of  a  great  renown,  than  by  exhibiting  the  pos- 
sessor of  it  in  the  decline,  the  overthrow,  the  utter 
degradation  of  his  powers  —  buried  beneath  his  own 
mortality — and  lacking  even  the  qualities  of  sense,  that 
enable  the  most  ordinary  men  to  bear  themselves 
decently  in  the  eye  of  the  world.  This  is  the  state 
to  which  disease,  aggravated  by  long  endurance  of  a 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  117 

tropical  climate,  and  assisted  by  old  age  —  for  he  is  now 
above  seventy  —  has  reduced  Bonaparte.  The  British 
government  has  acted  shrewdly,  in  re-transporting  him 
from  St.  Helena  to  England.  They  should  now  restore 
him  to  Paris,  and  there  let  him  once  again  review  the 
relics  of  his  armies.  His  eye  is  dull  and  rheumy ;  his 
nether  lip  hung  down  upon  his  chin.  While  I  was 
observing  him,  there  chanced  to  be  a  little  extra  bustle 
in  the  street;  and  he,  the  brother  of  Caesar  and  Han- 
nibal—  the  Great  Captain,  who  had  veiled  the  world  in 
battle  smoke,  and  tracked  it  round  with  bloody  foot- 
steps —  was  seized  with  a  nervous  trembling,  and 
claimed  the  protection  of  the  two  policemen  by  a 
cracked  and  dolorous  cry.  The  fellows  winked  at  one 
another,  laughed  aside,  and  patting  Napoleon  on  the 
back,  took  each  an  arm  and  led  him  away. 

Death  and  fury  !  Ha,  villain,  how  came  you  hither  ? 
Avaunt !  —  or  I  fling  my  inkstand  at  your  head.  Tush, 
tush ;  it  is  all  a  mistake.  Pray,  my  dear  friend,  pardon 
this  little  outbreak.  The  fact  is,  the  mention  of  those 
two  policemen,  and  their  custody  of  Bonaparte,  had 
called  up  the  idea  of  that  odious  wretch  —  you  remem- 
ber him  well  —  who  was  pleased  to  take  such  gratuitous 
and  impertinent  care  of  my  person,  before  I  quitted 
New  England.  Forthwith,  uprose  before  my  mind's 
eye  that  same  little  white-washed  room,  with  the  iron- 
grated  window  —  strange,  that  it  should  have  been  iron- 
grated —  where,  in  too  easy  compliance  with  the  absurd 
wishes  of  my  relatives,  I  have  wasted  several  good  years 
of  my  life.  Positively,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  still 
sitting  there,  and  that  the  keeper  —  not  that  he  ever 
was  my  keeper  neither,  but  only  a  kind  of  intrusive 
devil  of  a  body-servant  —  had  just  peeped  in  at  the 
door.  The  rascal !  I  owe  him  an  old  grudge,  and  will 
find  a  time  to  pay  it  yet !  Fie,  fie !  the  mere  thought  of 
him  has  exceedingly  discomposed  me.  Even  now,  that 
hateful  chamber  —  that  iron-grated  window,  which 
blasted  the  blessed  sunshine  as  it  fell  through  the 
dusty  panes,  and  made  it  poison  to  my  soul  —  looks 
more  distinct  to  my  view  than  does  this,  my  comfortable 


ii8   MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

apartment  in  the  heart  of  London.  The  reality  —  that 
which  I  know  to  be  such  —  hangs  like  remnants  of  tat- 
tered scenery  over  the  intolerably  prominent  illusion. 
Let  us  think  of  it  no  more. 

You  will  be  anxious  to  hear  of  Shelley.  I  need  not 
say,  what  is  known  to  all  the  world,  that  this  celebrated 
poet  has,  for  many  years  past,  been  reconciled  to  the 
Church  of  England.  In  his  more  recent  works,  he  has 
applied  his  fine  powers  to  the  vindication  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith,  with  an  especial  view  to  that  particular  devel- 
opment. Latterly  —  as  you  may  not  have  heard  —  he 
has  taken  orders,  and  been  inducted  to  a  small  country 
living,  in  the  gift  of  the  Lord  Chancellor.  Just  now, 
luckily  for  me,  he  has  come  to  the  metropolis  to  super- 
intend the  publication  of  a  volume  of  discourses,  treat- 
ing of  the  poetico-philosophical  proofs  of  Christianity, 
on  the  basis  of  the  Thirty-nine  Articles.  On  my  first 
introduction,  I  felt  no  little  embarrassment  as  to  the 
mode  of  combining  what  I  had  to  say  to  the  author  of 
Queen  Mab,  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  and  Prometheus  Un- 
bound, with  such  acknowledgments  as  might  be  accept- 
able to  a  Christian  minister,  and  zealous  upholder  of 
the  Established  Church.  But  Shelley  soon  placed  me 
at  my  ease.  Standing  where  he  now  does,  and  review- 
ing all  his  successive  productions  from  a  higher  point, 
he  assures  me  that  there  is  a  harmony,  an  order,  a  regu- 
lar procession,  which  enables  him  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
any  one  of  the  earlier  poems,  and  say,  "  This  is  my 
work !  "  with  precisely  the  same  complacency  of  con- 
science wherewithal  he  contemplates  the  volume  of  dis- 
courses above-mentioned.  They  are  like  the  successive 
steps  of  a  staircase,  the  lowest  of  which,  in  the  depth 
of  chaos,  is  as  essential  to  the  support  of  the  whole, 
as  the  highest  and  final  one,  resting  upon  the  thresh- 
old of  the  heavens.  I  felt  half  inclined  to  ask  him, 
what  would  have  been  his  fate,  had  he  perished  on  the 
lower  steps  of  his  staircase,  instead  of  building  his  way 
aloft  into  the  celestial  brightness. 

How  all  this  may  be,  I  neither  pretend  to  understand 
nor  greatly  care,  so  long  as  Shelley  has  really  climbed, 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  119 

as  it  seems  he  has,  from  a  lower  region  to  a  loftier  one. 
Without  touching  upon  their  religious  merits,  I  consider 
the  productions  of  his  maturity  superior,  as  poems,  to 
those  of  his  youth.  They  are  warmer  with  human  love, 
which  has  served  as  an  interpreter  between  his  mind 
and  the  multitude.  The  author  has  learned  to  dip  his 
pen  oftener  into  his  heart,  and  has  thereby  avoided  the 
faults  into  which  a  too  exclusive  use  of  fancy  and  intel- 
lect are  wont  to  betray  him.  Formerly  his  page  was 
often  little  other  than  a  concrete  arrangement  of  crystal- 
lizations, or  even  of  icicles,  as  cold  as  they  were  brilliant. 
Now,  you  take  it  to  your  heart,  and  are  conscious  of  a 
heart-warmth  responsive  to  your  own.  In  his  private 
character,  Shelley  can  hardly  have  grown  more  gentle, 
kind,  and  affectionate  than  his  friends  always  repre- 
sented him  to  be,  up  to  that  disastrous  night  when  he 
was  drowned  in  the  Mediterranean.  Nonsense,  again  ! 
—  sheer  nonsense !  What  am  I  babbling  about  ?  I 
was  thinking  of  that  old  figment  of  his  being  lost  in  the 
Bay  of  Spezia,  and  washed  ashore  near  Via  Reggio,  and 
burned  to  ashes  on  a  funeral  pyre,  with  wine  and  spices 
and  frankincense ;  while  Byron  stood  on  the  beach,  and 
beheld  a  flame  of  marvellous  beauty  rise  heavenward 
from  the  dead  poet's  heart ;  and  that  his  fire-purified 
relics  were  finally  buried  near  his  child,  in  Roman  earth. 
If  all  this  happened  three-and-twenty  years  ago,  how 
could  I  have  met  the  drowned,  and  burned,  and  buried 
man,  here  in  London,  only  yesterday  ? 

Before  quitting  the  subject,  I  may  mention  that  Dr. 
Reginald  Heber,  heretofore  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  but  re- 
cently translated  to  a  see  in  England,  called  on  Shelley 
while  I  was  with  him.  They  appeared  to  be  on  terms 
of  very  cordial  intimacy,  and  are  said  to  have  a  joint 
poem  in  contemplation.  What  a  strange,  incongruous 
dream  is  the  life  of  man ! 

Coleridge  has  at  last  finished  his  poem  of  Christabel ; 
it  will  be  issued  entire  by  old  John  Murray,  in  the  course 
of  the  present  publishing  season.  The  poet,  I  hear,  is 
visited  with  a  troublesome  affection  of  the  tongue,  which 
has  put  a  period,  or  some  lesser  stop,  to  the  life-long 


120  MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

discourse  that  has  hitherto  been  flowing  from  his  lips. 
He  will  not  survive  it  above  a  month,  unless  his  accumu- 
lation of  ideas  be  sluiced  off  in  some  other  way.  Words- 
worth died  only  a  week  or  two  ago.  Heaven  rest  his 
soul,  and  grant  that  he  may  not  have  completed  the 
Excursion  !  Methinks  I  am  sick  of  everything  he  wrote, 
except  his  Laodamia.  It  is  very  sad  —  this  inconstancy 
of  the  mind  to  the  poets  whom  it  once  worshipped. 
Southey  is  as  hale  as  ever,  and  writes  with  his  usual 
diligence.  Old  Gifford  is  still  alive,  in  the  extremity  of 
age,  and  with  most  pitiable  decay  of  what  little  sharp 
and  narrow  intellect  the  devil  had  gifted  him  withal. 
One  hates  to  allow  such  a  man  the  privilege  of  growing 
old  and  infirm.  It  takes  away  our  speculative  license 
of  kicking  him. 

Keats  ?  No ;  I  have  not  seen  him,  except  across  a 
crowded  street,  with  coaches,  drays,  horsemen,  cabs, 
omnibuses,  foot-passengers,  and  divers  other  sensual 
obstructions,  intervening  betwixt  his  small  and  slender 
figure  and  my  eager  glance.  I  would  fain  have  met  him 
on  the  sea-shore  —  or  beneath  a  natural  arch  of  forest 
trees  —  or  the  Gothic  arch  of  an  old  cathedral  —  or 
among  Grecian  ruins  —  or  at  a  glimmering  fireside  on 
the  verge  of  evening  —  or  at  the  twilight  entrance  of  a 
cave,  into  the  dreamy  depths  of  which  he  would  have 
led  me  by  the  hand  ;  anywhere,  in  short,  save  at  Temple 
Bar,  where  his  presence  was  blotted  out  by  the  porter- 
swollen  bulks  of  these  gross  Englishmen.  I  stood  and 
watched  him,  fading  away,  fading  away,  along  the  pave- 
ment, and  could  hardly  tell  whether  he  were  an  actual 
man,  or  a  thought  that  had  slipped  out  of  my  own  mind, 
and  clothed  itself  in  human  form  and  habiliments, 
merely  to  beguile  me.  At  one  moment  he  put  his  hand- 
kerchief to  his  lips,  and  withdrew  it,  I  am  almost  certain, 
stained  with  blood.  You  never  saw  anything  so  fragile 
as  his  person.  The  truth  is,  Keats  has  all  his  life  felt 
the  effects  of  that  terrible  bleeding  at  the  lungs,  caused 
by  the  article  on  his  Endymion,  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 
and  which  so  nearly  brought  him  to  the  grave.  Ever 
since,  he  has  glided  about  the  world  like  a  ghost,  sigh- 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  121 

ing  a  melancholy  tone  in  the  ear  of  here  and  there  a 
friend,  but  never  sending  forth  his  voice  to  greet  the 
multitude.  I  can  hardly  think  him  a  great  poet.  The 
burthen  of  a  mighty  genius  would  not  have  been  im- 
posed upon  shoulders  so  physically  frail,  and  a  spirit  so 
infirmly  sensitive.  Great  poets  should  have  iron  sinews. 
Yet  Keats,  though  for  so  many  years  he  has  given 
nothing  to  the  world,  is  understood  to  have  devoted  him- 
self to  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem.  Some  passages 
of  it  have  been  communicated  to  the  inner  circle  of  his 
admirers,  and  impressed  them  as  the  loftiest  strains  that 
have  been  audible  on  earth  since  Milton's  days.  If  I 
can  obtain  copies  of  these  specimens,  I  will  ask  you  to 
present  them  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  who  seems  to  be 
one  of  the  poet's  most  fervent  and  worthiest  worship- 
pers. The  information  took  me  by  surprise.  I  had 
supposed  that  all  Keats's  poetic  incense,  without  being 
embodied  in  human  language,  floated  up  to  heaven,  and 
mingled  with  the  songs  of  the  immortal  choristers,  who 
perhaps  were  conscious  of  an  unknown  voice  among 
them,  and  thought  their  melody  the  sweeter  for  it.  But 
it  is  not  so  ;  he  has  positively  written  a  poem  on  the 
subject  of  Paradise  Regained,  though  in  another  sense 
than  that  which  presented  itself  to  the  mind  of  Milton. 
In  compliance,  it  may  be  imagined,  with  the  dogma 
of  those  who  pretend  that  all  epic  possibilities,  in  the  past 
history  of  the  world,  are  exhausted,  Keats  has  thrown 
his  poem  forward  into  an  indefinitely  remote  futurity. 
He  pictures  mankind  amid  the  closing  circumstances  of 
the  time-long  warfare  between  Good  and  Evil.  Our 
race  is  on  the  eve  of  its  final  triumph.  Man  is  within 
the  last  stride  of  perfection;  Woman,  redeemed  from 
the  thraldom  against  which  our  Sibyl  uplifts  so  power- 
ful and  so  sad  a  remonstrance,  stands  equal  by  his  side, 
or  communes  for  herself  with  angels ;  the  Earth,  sym- 
pathizing with  her  children's  happier  state,  has  clothed 
herself  in  such  luxuriant  and  loving  beauty  as  no  eye 
ever  witnessed  since  our  first  parents  saw  the  sunrise 
over  dewy  Eden.  Nor  then,  indeed ;  for  this  is  the  ful- 
filment of  what  was  then  but  a  golden  promise.  But 


122   MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

the  picture  has  its  shadows.  There  remains  to  mankind 
another  peril ;  a  last  encounter  with  the  Evil  Principle. 
Should  the  battle  go  against  us,  we  sink  back  into  the 
slime  and  misery  of  ages.  If  we  triumph  !  —  but  it  de- 
mands a  poet's  eye  to  contemplate  the  splendor  of  such 
a  consummation,  and  not  to  be  dazzled. 

To  this  great  work  Keats  is  said  to  have  brought  so 
deep  and  tender  a  spirit  of  humanity,  that  the  poem  has 
all  the  sweet  and  warm  interest  of  a  village  tale,  no  less 
than  the  grandeur  which  befits  so  high  a  theme.  Such, 
at  least,  is  the  perhaps  partial  representation  of  his 
friends ;  for  I  have  not  read  or  heard  even  a  single  line 
of  the  performance  in  question.  Keats,  I  am  told,  with- 
holds it  from  the  press,  under  an  idea  that  the  age  ha-s 
not  enough  of  spiritual  insight  to  receive  it  worthily.  I 
do  not  like  this  distrust ;  it  makes  me  distrust  the  poet. 
The  Universe  is  waiting  to  respond  to  the  highest  word 
that  the  best  child  of  time  and  immortality  can  utter. 
If  it  refuse  to  listen,  it  is  because  he  mumbles  and  stam- 
mers, or  discourses  things  unseasonable  and  foreign  to 
the  purpose. 

I  visited  the  House  of  Lords,  the  other  day,  to  hear 
Canning,  who,  you  know,  is  now  a  peer,  with  I  forget 
what  title.  He  disappointed  me.  Time  blunts  both 
point  and  edge,  and  does  great  mischief  to  men  of  his 
order  of  intellect.  Then  I  stept  into  the  Lower  House, 
and  listened  to  a  few  words  from  Cobbett,  who  looked  as 
earthy  as  a  real  clodhopper,  or  rather,  as  if  he  had  lain 
a  dozen  years  beneath  the  clods.  The  men,  whom  I  meet 
nowadays,  often  impress  me  thus  ;  probably  because  my 
spirits  are  not  very  good,  and  lead  me  to  think  much 
about  graves,  with  the  long  grass  upon  them,  and 
weather-worn  epitaphs,  and  dry  bones  of  people  who 
made  noise  enough  in  their  day,  but  now  can  only  clat- 
ter, clatter,  clatter,  when  the  sexton's  spade  disturbs 
them.  Were  it  only  possible  to  find  out  who  are  alive, 
and  who  dead,  it  would  contribute  infinitely  to  my  peace 
of  mind.  Every  day  of  my  life,  somebody  comes  and 
stares  me  in  the  face,  whom  I  had  quietly  blotted  out  of 
the  tablet  of  living  men,  and  trusted  never  more  to  be 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  123 

pestered  with  the  sight  or  sound  of  him.  For  instance, 
going  to  Drury-Lane  Theatre,  a  few  evenings  since,  up 
rose  before  me,  in  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father,  the 
bodily  presence  of  the  elder  Kean,  who  did  die  or  ought 
to  have  died,  in  some  drunken  fit  or  other,  so  long  ago 
that  his  fame  is  scarcely  traditionary  now.  His  powers 
are  quite  gone ;  he  was  rather  the  ghost  of  himself  than 
the  ghost  of  the  Danish  king. 

In  the  stage  box  sat  several  elderly  and  decrepit 
people,  and  among  them  a  stately  ruin  of  a  woman  on  a 
very  large  scale,  with  a  profile  —  for  I  did  not  see  her 
front  face —  that  stamped  itself  into  my  brain,  as  a  seal 
impresses  hot  wax.  By  the  tragic  gesture  with  which 
she  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  I  was  sure  it  must  be  Mrs. 
Siddons.  Her  brother,  John  Kemble,  sat  behind,  a 
broken-down  figure,  but  still  with  a  kingly  majesty  about 
him.  In  lieu  of  all  former  achievements,  nature  enables 
him  to  look  the  part  of  Lear  far  better  than  in  the 
meridian  of  his  genius.  Charles  Matthews  was  likewise 
there ;  but  a  paralytic  affection  has  distorted  his  once 
mobile  countenance  into  a  most  disagreeable  one-sided- 
ness,  from  which  he  could  no  more  wrench  it  into  proper 
form  than  he  could  rearrange  the  face  of  the  great  globe 
itself.  It  looks  as  if,  for  the  joke's  sake,  the  poor  man 
had  twisted  his  features  into  an  expression  at  once  the 
most  ludicrous  and  horrible  that  he  could  contrive ;  and 
at  that  very  moment,  as  a  judgment  for  making  him- 
self so  hideous,  an  avenging  providence  had  seen  fit  to 
petrify  him.  Since  it  is  out  of  his  own  power,  I  would 
gladly  assist  him  to  change  countenance ;  for  his  ugly 
visage  haunts  me  both  at  noontide  and  night-time.  Some 
other  players  of  the  past  generation  were  present,  but 
none  that  greatly  interested  me.  It  behooves  actors, 
more  than  all  other  men  of  publicity,  to  vanish  from  the 
scene  betimes.  Being,  at  best,  but  painted  shadows 
flickering  on  the  wall,  and  empty  sounds  that  echo 
another's  thought,  it  is  a  sad  disenchantment  when  the 
colors  begin  to  fade,  and  the  voice  to  croak  with  age. 

What  is  there  new,  in  the  literary  way,  on  your  side 
of  the  water  ?  Nothing  of  the  kind  has  come  under  my 


i24   MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

inspection,  except  a  volume  of  poems,  published  above 
a  year  ago,  by  Dr.  Channing.  I  did  not  before  know 
that  this  eminent  writer  is  a  poet ;  nor  does  the  volume 
alluded  to  exhibit  any  of  the  characteristics  of  the 
author's  mind,  as  displayed  in  his  prose  works  ;  although 
some  of  the  poems  have  a  richness  that  is  not  merely  of 
the  surface,  but  glows  still  the  brighter,  the  deeper  and 
more  faithfully  you  look  into  them.  They  seem  care- 
lessly wrought,  however,  like  those  rings  and  ornaments 
of  the  very  purest  gold,  but  of  rude,  native  manufacture, 
which  are  found  among  the  gold  dust  from  Africa.  I 
doubt  whether  the  American  public  will  accept  them  ; 
it  looks  less  to  the  assay  of  metal  than  to  the  neat  and 
cunning  manufacture.  How  slowly  our  literature  grows 
up  !  Most  of  our  writers  of  promise  have  come  to 
untimely  ends.  There  was  that  wild  fellow,  John  Neal, 
who  almost  turned  my  boyish  brain  with  his  romances ; 
he  surely  has  long  been  dead,  else  he  never  could  keep 
himself  so  quiet.  Bryant  has  gone  to  his  last  sleep,  with 
the  Thanatopsis  gleaming  over  him  like  a  sculptured 
marble  sepulchre  by  moonlight.  Halleck,  who  used  to 
write  queer  verses  in  the  newspapers,  and  published  a 
Don  Juanic  poem  called  Fanny,  is  defunct  as  a  poet, 
though  averred  to  be  exemplifying  the  metempsychosis 
as  a  man  of  business.  Somewhat  later  there  was  Whit- 
tier,  a  fiery  Quaker  youth,  to  whom  the  muse  had  per- 
versely assigned  a  battle-trumpet,  and  who  got  himself 
lynched,  ten  years  agone,  in  South  Carolina.  I  remem- 
ber, too,  a  lad  just  from  college,  Longfellow  by  name, 
who  scattered  some  delicate  verses  to  the  winds,  and 
went  to  Germany,  and  perished,  I  think,  of  intense 
application,  at  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Willis  — 
what  a  pity!  —  was  lost,  if  I  recollect  rightly,  in  1833, 
on  his  voyage  to  Europe,  whither  he  was  going,  to  give 
us  sketches  of  the  world's  sunny  face.  If  these  had 
lived,  they  might,  one  or  all  of  them,  have  grown  to  be 
famous  men. 

And  yet  there  is  no  telling  —  it  may  be  as  well  that 
they  have  died.  I  was  myself  a  young  man  of  promise. 
Oh,  shattered  brain  !  —  oh,  broken  spirit !  —  where  is 


P.'S   CORRESPONDENCE  125 

the  fulfilment  of  that  promise  ?  The  sad  truth  is,  that 
when  fate  would  gently  disappoint  the  world,  it  takes 
away  the  hopefullest  mortals  in  their  youth ;  —  when 
it  would  laugh  the  world's  hopes  to  scorn,  it  lets  them 
live.  Let  me  die  upon  this  apophthegm,  for  I  shall 
never  make  a  truer  one  ! 

What  a  strange  substance  is  the  human  brain !  Or 
rather  —  for  there  is  no  need  of  generalizing  the  remark 
—  what  an  odd  brain  is  mine!  Would  you  believe  it? 
Daily  and  nightly  there  come  scraps  of  poetry  humming 
in  my  intellectual  ear  —  some  as  airy  as  bird-notes,  and 
some  as  delicately  neat  as  parlor-music,  and  a  few  as 
grand  as  organ-peals  —  that  seem  just  such  verses  as  those 
departed  poets  would  have  written,  had  not  an  inexora- 
ble destiny  snatched  them  from  their  inkstands.  They 
visit  me  in  spirit,  perhaps  desiring  to  engage  my  services 
as  the  amanuensis  of  their  posthumous  productions,  and 
thus  secure  the  endless  renown  that  they  have  forfeited 
by  going  hence  too  early.  But  I  have  my  own  business 
to  attend  to  ;  and  besides,  a  medical  gentleman,  who 
interests  himself  in  some  little  ailments  of  mine,  advises 
me  not  to  make  too  free  use  of  pen  and  ink.  There  are 
clerks  enough  out  of  employment  who  would  be  glad  of 
such  a  job. 

Good  bye !  are  you  alive  or  dead  ?  And  what  are 
you  about  ?  Still  scribbling  for  the  Democratic  ?  And 
do  those  infernal  compositors  and  proof-readers  mis- 
print your  unfortunate  productions  as  vilely  as  ever? 
It  is  too  bad.  Let  every  man  manufacture  his  own  non- 
sense, say  I !  Expect  me  home  soon,  and  —  to  whisper 
you  a  secret  —  in  company  with  the  poet  Campbell,  who 
purposes  to  visit  Wyoming,  and  enjoy  the  shadow  of 
the  laurels  that  he  planted  there.  Campbell  is  now  an 
old  man.  He  calls  himself  well,  better  than  ever  in  his 
life,  but  looks  strangely  pale,  and  so  shadow-like,  that 
one  might  almost  poke  a  finger  through  his  densest 
material.  I  tell  him,  by  way  of  joke,  that  he  is  as  dim 
and  forlorn  as  Memory,  though  as  unsubstantial  as 
Hope. 

Your  true  friend,  P. 


126   MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

P.S.  Pray  present  my  most  respectful  regards  to  our 
venerable  and  revered  friend,  Mr.  Brockden  Brown.  It 
gratifies  me  to  learn  that  a  complete  edition  of  his  works, 
in  a  double-columned  octavo  volume,  is  shortly  to  issue 
from  the  press,  at  Philadelphia.  Tell  him  that  no  Ameri- 
can writer  enjoys  a  more  classic  reputation  on  this  side 
of  the  water.  Is  old  Joel  Barlow  yet  alive?  Uncon- 
scionable man  !  Why,  he  must  have  nearly  fulfilled 
his  century !  And  does  he  meditate  an  epic  on  the  war 
between  Mexico  ard  Texas,  with  machinery  contrived 
on  the  principle  of  the  steam-engine,  as  being  the  nearest 
to  celestial  agency  that  our  epoch  can  boast  ?  How  can 
he  expect  ever  to  rise  again,  if,  while  just  sinking  into 
his  grave,  he  persists  in  burthening  himself  with  such  a 
ponderosity  of  leaden  verses  ? 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST 

ONCE  upon  a  time  —  but  whether  in  the  time  past 
or  time  to  come,  is  a  matter  of  little  or  no  moment 
—  this  wide  world  had  become  so  overburthened  with 
an  accumulation  of  worn-out  trumpery,  that  the  inhab- 
itants determined  to  rid  themselves  of  it  by  a  general 
bonfire.  The  site  fixed  upon,  at  the  representation  of 
the  insurance  companies,  and  as  being  as  central  a  spot 
as  any  other  on  the  globe,  was  one  of  the  broadest 
prairies  of  the  West,  where  no  human  habitation  would 
be  endangered  by  the  flames,  and  where  a  vast  assem- 
blage of  spectators  might  commodiously  admire  the 
show.  Having  a  taste  for  sights  of  this  kind,  and 
imagining,  likewise,  that  the  illumination  of  the  bonfire 
might  reveal  some  profundity  or  moral  truth,  heretofore 
hidden  in  mist  or  darkness,  I  made  it  convenient  to 
journey  thither  and  be  present.  At  my  arrival,  although 
the  heap  of  condemned  rubbish  was  as  yet  compara- 
tively small,  the  torch  had  already  been  applied.  Amid 
that  boundless  plain,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  like  a 
far-off  star  alone  in  the  firmament,  there  was  merely 
visible  one  tremulous  gleam,  whence  none  could  have 
anticipated  so  fierce  a  blaze  as  was  destined  to  ensue. 
With  every  moment,  however,  there  came  foot-travellers, 
women  holding  up  their  aprons,  men  on  horseback, 
wheel-barrows,  lumbering  baggage  wagons,  and  other 
vehicles,  great  and  small,  and  from  far  and  near,  laden 
with  articles  that  were  judged  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be 
burnt. 

"  What  materials  have  been  used  to  kindle  the  flame?" 
inquired  I  of  a  bystander,  for  I  was  desirous  of  know- 
ing the  whole  process  of  the  affair  from  beginning  to 
end, 


128   MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

The  person  whom  I  addressed  was  a  grave  man,  fifty 
years  old,  or  thereabout,  who  had  evidently  come  thither 
as  a  looker-on ;  he  struck  me  immediately  as  having 
weighed  for  himself  the  true  value  of  life  and  its  cir- 
cumstances, and  therefore  as  feeling  little  personal  in- 
terest in  whatever  judgment  the  world  might  form  of 
them.  Before  answering  my  question,  he  looked  me  in 
the  face,  by  the  kindling  light  of  the  fire. 

"Oh,  some  very  dry  combustibles,"  replied  he,  "and 
extremely  suitable  to  the  purpose  —  no  other,  in  fact, 
than  yesterday's  newspapers,  last  month's  magazines,  and 
last  year's  withered  leaves.  Here,  now,  comes  some 
antiquated  trash,  that  will  take  fire  like  a  handful  of 
shavings." 

As  he  spoke,  some  rough-looking  men  advanced  to 
the  verge  of  the  bonfire,  and  threw  in,  as  it  appeared, 
all  the  rubbish  of  the  Herald's  office ;  the  blazonry  of 
coat-armor,  the  crests  and  devices  of  illustrious  families ; 
pedigrees  that  extended  back,  like  lines  of  light,  into  the 
mist  of  the  dark  ages,  together  with  stars,  garters,  and 
embroidered  collars,  each  of  which,  as  paltry  a  bauble  as  it 
might  appear  to  the  uninstructed  eye,  had  once  possessed 
vast  significance,  and  was  still,  in  truth,  reckoned  among 
the  most  precious  of  moral  or  material  facts,  by  the  wor- 
shippers of  the  gorgeous  past.  Mingled  with  this  con- 
fused heap,  which  was  tossed  into  the  flames  by  armfuls 
at  once,  were  innumerable  badges  of  knighthood,  com- 
prising those  of  all  the  European  sovereignties,  and 
Napoleon's  decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  the 
ribands  of  which  were  entangled  with  those  of  the  an- 
cient order  of  St.  Louis.  There,  too,  were  the  medals 
of  our  own  society  of  Cincinnati,  by  means  of  which, 
as  history  tells  us,  an  order  of  hereditary  knights  came 
near  being  constituted  out  of  the  king-quellers  of  the 
Revolution.  And  besides,  there  were  the  patents  of 
nobility  of  German  counts  and  barons,  Spanish  gran- 
dees, and  English  peers,  from  the  worm-eaten  instru- 
ments signed  by  William  the  Conqueror,  down  to  the 
bran-new  parchment  of  the  latest  lord  who  has  received 
his  honors  from  the  fair  hand  of  Victoria. 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  129 

At  sight  of  these  dense  volumes  of  smoke,  mingled 
with  vivid  jets  of  flame  that  gushed  and  eddied  forth 
from  this  immense  pile  of  earthly  distinctions,  the  multi- 
tude of  plebeian  spectators  set  up  a  joyous  shout,  and 
clapt  their  hands  with  an  emphasis  that  made  the  welkin 
echo.  That  was  their  moment  of  triumph,  achieved,  after 
long  ages,  over  creatures  of  the  same  clay  and  the  same 
spiritual  infirmities,  who  had  dared  to  assume  the  privi- 
leges due  only  to  Heaven's  better  workmanship.  But 
now  there  rushed  towards  the  blazing  heap  a  gray-haired 
man,  of  stately  presence,  wearing  a  coat  from  the  breast 
of  which  a  star,  or  other  badge  of  rank,  seemed  to  have 
been  forcibly  wrenched  away.  He  had  not  the  tokens 
of  intellectual  power  in  his  face ;  but  still  there  was  the 
demeanor  —  the  habitual  and  almost  native  dignity  — 
of  one  who  had  been  born  to  the  idea  of  his  own  social 
superiority,  and  had  never  felt  it  questioned  till  that 
moment. 

"  People,"  cried  he,  gazing  at  the  ruin  of  what  was 
dearest  to  his  eyes  with  grief  and  wonder,  but,  never- 
theless, with  a  degree  of  stateliness ;  "  people,  what  have 
you  done !  This  fire  is  consuming  all  that  marked  your 
advance  from  barbarism,  or  that  could  have  prevented 
your  relapse  thither.  We  —  the  men  of  the  privileged 
orders  —  were  those  who  kept  alive,  from  age  to  age, 
the  old  chivalrous  spirit;  the  gentle  and  generous 
thought;  the  higher,  the  purer,  the  more  refined  and 
delicate  life  !  With  the  nobles,  too,  you  cast  off  the 
poet,  the  painter,  the  sculptor  —  all  the  beautiful  arts ; 
for  we  were  their  patrons,  and  created  the  atmosphere 
in  which  they  flourish.  In  abolishing  the  majestic  dis- 
tinctions of  rank,  society  loses  not  only  its  grace  but  its 
steadfastness  — 

More  he  would  doubtless  have  spoken,  but  here  there 
arose  an  outcry,  sportive,  contemptuous,  and  indignant, 
that  altogether  drowned  the  appeal  of  the  fallen  noble- 
man, insomuch  that,  casting  one  look  of  despair  at  his 
own  half-burnt  pedigree,  he  shrunk  back  into  the  crowd, 
glad  to  shelter  himself  under  his  new-found  insignifi- 
cance. 


130  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

"  Let  him  thank  his  stars  that  we  have  not  flung  him 
into  the  same  fire ! "  shouted  a  rude  figure,  spurning 
the  embers  with  his  foot.  "  And,  henceforth,  let  no 
man  dare  to  show  a  piece  of  musty  parchment  as  his 
warrant  for  lording  it  over  his  fellows !  If  he  have 
strength  of  arm,  well  and  good ;  it  is  one  species  of 
superiority.  If  he  have  wit,  wisdom,  courage,  force  of 
character,  let  these  attributes  do  for  him  what  they 
may^/But,  from  this  day  forward,  no  mortal  must  hope 
'V)  for  place  and  consideration  by  reckoning  up  the  mouldy/ 
bone.s  of  his  ancestors  !  That  nonsense  is  done  away./ 

'fAnd  in  good  time,"  remarked  the  grave  observer 
by  4ny  side,  in  a  low  voice,  however  —  "if  no  worse 
nonsense  comes  in  its  place.  But,  at  all  events,  this 
species  of  nonsense  has  fairly  lived  out  its  life^) 

There  was  little  space  to  muse  or  moralize  over  the 
embers  of  this  time-honored  rubbish  ;  for,  before  it  was 
half  burnt  out,  there  came  another  multitude  from  be- 
yond the  sea,  bearing  the  purple  robes  of  royalty,  and 
the  crowns,  globes,  and  sceptres  of  emperors  and  kings. 
All  these  had  been  condemned  as  useless  baubles,  play- 
things, at  best,  fit  only  for  the  infancy  of  the  world,  or 
rods  to  govern  and  chastise  it  in  its  nonage ;  but  with 
which  universal  manhood,  at  its  full-grown  stature,  could 
no  longer  brook  to  be  insulted.  Into  such  contempt 
had  these  regal  insignia  now  fallen,  that  the  gilded 
crown  and  tinselled  robes  of  the  player-king,  from  Drury- 
Lane  Theatre,  had  been  thrown  in  among  the  rest, 
doubtless  as  a  mockery  of  his  brother-monarchs  on  the 
great  stage  of  the  world.  It  was  a  strange  sight  to 
discern  the  crown-jewels  of  England,  glowing  and  flash- 
ing in  the  midst  of  the  fire.  Some  of  them  had  been 
delivered  down  from  the  time  of  the  Saxon  princes ; 
others  were  purchased  with  vast  revenues,  or,  perchance, 
ravished  from  the  dead  brows  of  the  native  potentates 
of  Hindostan ;  and  the  whole  now  blazed  with  a  daz- 
zling lustre,  as  if  a  star  had  fallen  in  that  spot,  and  been 
shattered  into  fragments.  The  splendor  of  the  ruined 
monarchy  had  no  reflection,  save  in  those  inestimable 
precious  stones.  But  enough  on  this  subject.  It  were 


EARTH'S   HOLOCAUST  131 

but  tedious  to  describe  how  the  Emperor  of  Austria's 
mantle  was  converted  to  tinder,  and  how  the  posts  and 
pillars  of  the  French  throne  became  a  heap  of  coals, 
which  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  from  those  of  any 
other  wood.  Let  me  add,  however,  that  I  noticed  one 
of  the  exiled  Poles  stirring  up  the  bonfire  with  the  Czar 
of  Russia's  sceptre,  which  he  afterwards  flung  into  the 
flames. 

"  The  smell  of  singed  garments  is  quite  intolerable 
here,"  observed  my  new  acquaintance,  as  the  breeze 
enveloped  us  in  the  smoke  of  a  royal  wardrobe.  "  Let 
us  get  to  windward,  and  see  what  they  are  doing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bonfire." 

We  accordingly  passed  around,  and  were  just  in 
time  to  witness  the  arrival  of  a  vast  procession  of 
Washingtonians  —  as  the  votaries  of  temperance  call 
themselves  nowadays  —  accompanied  by  thousands  of 
the  Irish  disciples  of  Father  Mathew,  with  that  great 
apostle  at  their  head.  They  brought  a  rich  contribu- 
tion to  the  bonfire ;  being  nothing  less  than  all  the 
hogsheads  and  barrels  of  liquor  in  the  world,  which 
they  rolled  before  them  across  the  prairie. 

"  Now,  my  children,"  cried  Father  Mathew,  when 
they  reached  the  verge  of  the  fire  —  "  one  shove  more, 
and  the  work  is  done !  And  now  let  us  stand  off  and 
see  Satan  deal  with  his  own  liquor ! " 

Accordingly,  having  placed  their  wooden  vessels 
within  reach  of  the  flames,  the  procession  stood  off 
at  a  safe  distance,  and  soon  beheld  them  burst  into  a 
blaze  that  reached  the  clouds,  and  threatened  to  set 
the  sky  itself  on  fire.  And  well  it  might.  ^JFor  here 
was  the  whole  world's  stock  of  spirituous  liquors,  which, 
instead  of  kindling  a  frenzied  light  in  the  eyes  of  indi- 
vidual topers,  as  of  yore,  soared  upwards  with  a  be- 
wildering gleam  that  startled  all  mankind.  It  was  the 
aggregate  of  that  fierce  fire  which  would  otherwise 
have  scorched  the  hearts  of  millions?)  Meantime, 
numberless  bottles  of  precious  wine  were  flung  into 
the  blaze,  which  lapped  up  the  contents  as  if  it  loved 
them,  and  grew,  like  other  drunkards,  the  merrier  and 


ij2  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

fiercer  for  what  it  quaffed.  Never  again  will  the  in- 
satiable thirst  of  the  fire-fiend  be  so  pampered !  Here 
were  the  treasures  of  famous  bon-vivants  — •  liquors  that 
had  been  tossed  on  ocean,  and  mellowed  in  the  sun, 
and  hoarded  long  in  the  recesses  of  the  earth  —  the 
pale,  the  gold,  the  ruddy  juice  of  whatever  vineyards 
were  most  delicate  —  the  entire  vintage  of  Tokay  — 
all  mingling  in  one  stream  with  the  vile  fluids  of  the 
common  pot-house,  and  contributing  to  heighten  the 
self-same  blaze.  And  while  it  rose  in  a  gigantic  spire, 
that  seemed  to  wave  against  the  arch  of  the  firmament, 
and  combine  itself  with  the  light  of  stars,  the  multitude 

fave  a  shout,  as  if  the  broad  earth  were  exulting  in  its 
eliverance  from  the  curse  of  ages. 
QBut  the  joy  was  not  universal.  Many  deemed  that 
human  life  would  be  gloomier  than  ever,  when  that 
brief  illumination  should  sink  down.  While  the  re- 
formers were  at  work,  I  overheard  muttered  expostu- 
lations from  several  respectable  gentlemen  with  red 
noses,  and  wearing  gouty  shoes ;  and  a  ragged  worthy, 
whose  face  looked  like  a  hearth  where  the  fire  is  burnt 
out,  now  expressed  his  discontent  more  openly  and  boldlyV 

"What  is  this  world  good  for,"  said  the  last  toper, 
"now  that  we  can  never  be  jolly  any  more?  What 
is  to  comfort  the  poor  man  in  sorrow  and  perplexity  ? 
—  how  is  he  to  keep  his  heart  warm  against  the  cold 
winds  of  this  cheerless  earth  ?  —  and  what  do  you  pro- 
pose to  give  him  in  exchange  for  the  solace  that  you 
take  away  ?  How  are  old  friends  to  sit  together  by 
the  fireside,  without  a  cheerful  glass  between  them  ? 
A  plague  upon  your  reformation !  It  is  a  sad  world, 
a  cold  world,  a  selfish  world,  a  low  world,  not  worth 
an  honest  fellow's  living  in,  now  that  good  fellowship 
is  gone  forever !  " 

This  harangue  excited  great  mirth  among  the  by- 
standers. But,  preposterous  as  was  the  sentiment,  I 
could  not  help  commiserating  the  forlorn  condition  of 
the  last  toper,  whose  boon-companions  had  dwindled 
away  from  his  side,  leaving  the  poor  fellow  without 
a  soul  to  countenance  him  in  sipping  his  liquor,  nor 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  133 

indeed  any  liquor  to  sip.  Not  that  this  was  quite  the 
true  state  of  the  case;  for  I  had  observed  him,  at  a 
critical  moment,  filch  a  bottle  of  fourth-proof  brandy 
that  fell  beside  the  bonfire,  and  hide  it  in  his  pocket. 

The  spirituous  and  fermented  liquors  being  thus  dis- 
posed of,  the  zeal  of  the  reformers  next  induced  them 
to  replenish  the  fire  with  ajl  the  boxes  of  tea  and  bags 
of  coffee  in  the  world.  ifAnd  now  came  the  planters 
of  Virginia,  bringing  the'??  crops  of  tobacco.  These, 
being  cast  upon  the  heap  of  inutility,  aggregated  it  to 
the  size  of  a  mountain,  and  incensed  the  atmosphere 
with  such  potent  fragrance  that  methought  we  should 
never  draw  pure  breath  again.  The  present  sacrifice 
seemed  to  startle  the  lovers  of  the  jyeed  more  than 
any  that  they  had  hitherto  witnessed.^ 

"  Well,  they  Ve  put  my  pipe  out,"  sam  an  old  gentle- 
man, flinging  it  into  the  flames  in  a  pet.  "  What  is 
this  world  coming  to?  Everything  rich  and  racy  — 
all  the  spice  of  life  —  is  to  be  condemned  as  useless. 
Now  that  they  have  kindled  the  bonfire,  if  these  non- 
sensical reformers  would  fling  themselves  into  it,  all 
would  be  well  enough !  " 

"  Be  patient,"  responded  a  stanch  conservative ;  "  it 
will  come  to  that  in  the  end.  They  will  first  fling  us  in, 
and  finally  themselves." 

From  the  general  and  systematic  measures  of  re- 
form, I  now  turned  to  consider  the  individual  contribu- 
tions to  this  memorable  bonfire.  In  many  instances 
these  were  of  a  very  amusing  character.  One  poor 
fellow  threw  in  his  empty  purse,  and  another  a  bundle 
of  counterfeit  or  insolvable  bank  notes.  Fashionable 
ladies  threw  in  their  last  season's  bonnets,  together 
with  heaps  of  ribbons,  yellow  lace,  and  much  other 
half-worn  milliner's  ware ;  all  of  which  proved  even 
more  evanescent  in  the  fire  than  it  had  been  in  the 
fashion.  A  multitude  of  lovers  of  both  sexes  —  dis- 
carded maids  or  bachelors,  and  couples  mutually  weary 
of  one  another  —  tossed  in  bundles  of  perfumed  letters 
and  enamored  sonnets.  A  hack  politician,  being  de- 
prived of  bread  by  the  loss  of  office,  threw  in  his 


i34  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

teeth,  which  happened  to  be  false  ones.  The  Rev. 
Sidney  Smith  —  having  voyaged  across  the  Atlantic 
for  that  sole  purpose  —  came  up  to  the  bonfire  with 
a  bitter  grin,  and  threw  in  certain  repudiated  bonds, 
fortified  though  they  were  with  the  broad  seal  of 
a  sovereign  state.  A  little  boy  of  five  years  old,  in 
the  premature  manliness  of  the  present  epoch,  threw 
in  his  playthings;  a  college  graduate,  his  diploma; 
an  apothecary,  ruined  by  the  spread  of  homoeopathy, 
his  whole  stock  of  drugs  and  medicines;  a  physician, 
his  library ;  a  parson,  his  old  sermons ;  and  a  fine  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  his  code  of  manners,  which  he 
had  formerly  written  down  for  the  benefit  of  the  next 
generation.  A  widow,  resolving  on  a  second  marriage, 
slyly  threw  in  her  dead  husband's  miniature.  A  young 
man  jilted  by  his  mistress,  would  willingly  have  flung 
his  own  desperate  heart  into  the  flames,  but  could  find 
no  means  to  wrench  it  out  of  his  bosom.  An  Ameri- 
can author,  whose  works  were  neglected  by  the  public, 
threw  his  pen  and  paper  into  the  bonfire,  and  betook 
himself  to  some  less  discouraging  occupation.  It  some- 
what startled  me  to  overhear  a  number  of  ladies,  highly 
respectable  in  appearance,  proposing  to  fling  their  gowns 
and  petticoats  into  the  flames,  and  assume  the  garb, 
together  with  the  manners,  duties,  offices,  and  respon- 
sibilities, of  the  opposite  sex. 

What  favor  was  accorded  to  this  scheme,  I  am  unable 
to  say  ;  my  attention  being  suddenly  drawn  to  a  poor, 
deceived,  and  half-delirious  girl,  who,  exclaiming  that  she 
was  the  most  worthless  thing  alive  or  dead,  attempted 
to  cast  herself  into  the  fire,  amid  all  that  wrecked  and 
broken  trumpery  of  the  world.  A  good  man,  however, 
ran  to  her  rescue. 

"  Patience,  my  poor  girl ! "  said  he,  as  he  drew  her 
back  from  the  fierce  embrace  of  the  destroying  angel. 
"  Be  patient,  and  abide  Heaven's  will.  So  long  as  you 
possess  a  living  soul,  all  may  be  restored  to  its  first  fresh- 
ness. These  things  of  matter,  and  creations  of  human 
fantasy,  are  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  burnt,  when  once 
they  have  had  their  day.  But  your  day  is  eternity  ! " 


EARTH'S   HOLOCAUST  135 

"Yes,"  said  the  wretched  girl,  whose  frenzy  seemed 
now  to  have  sunk  down  into  deep  despondency;  "yes, 
and  the  sunshine  is  blotted  out  of  it !  " 

It  was  now  rumored  among  the  spectators  that  all  the 
weapons  and  munitions  of  war  were  to  be  thrown  into 
the  bonfire,  with  the  exception  of  the  world's  stock  of 
gunpowder,  which,  as  the  safest  mode  of  disposing  of 
it,  had  already  been  drowned  in  the  sea.  This  intelli- 
gence seemed  to  awaken  great  diversity  of  opinion. 
The  hopeful  philanthropist  esteemed  it  a  token  that  the 
rnftlennium  was  already  come  ;  while  persons  of  another 
stamp,  in  whose  view  mankind  was  a  breed  of  bull- 
dogs, prophesied  that  all  the  old  stoutness,  fervor,  noble- 
ness, generosity,  and  magnanimity  of  the  race  would 
disappear;  these  qualities,  as  they  affirmed,  requiring 
blood  for  their  nourishment.  They  comforted  them- 
selves, however,  in  the  belief  that  the  proposed  aboli- 
tion of  war  was  impracticable,  for  any  length  of  time 
together/! 

Be  that  as  it  might,  numberless  great  guns,  whose 
thunder  had  long  been  the  voice  of  battle  —  the  artillery 
of  the  Armada,  the  battering-trains  of  Marlborough,  and 
the  adverse  cannon  of  Napoleon  and  Wellington  —  were 
trundled  into  the  midst  of  the  fire.  By  the  continual 
addition  of  dry  combustibles,  it  had  now  waxed  so  in- 
tense that  neither  brass  nor  iron  could  withstand  it.  It 
was  wonderful  to  behold  how  these  terrible  instruments 
of  slaughter  melted  away  like  playthings  of  wax.  Then 
the  armies  of  the  earth  wheeled  around  the  mighty 
furnace,  with  their  military  music  playing  triumphant 
marches,  and  flung  in  their  muskets  and  swords.  The 
standard-bearers,  likewise,  cast  one  look  upward  at  their 
banners,  all  tattered  with  shot-holes,  and  inscribed  with 
the  names  of  victorious  fields,  and,  giving  them  a  last 
flourish  on  the  breeze,  they  lowered  them  into  the  flame, 
which  snatched  them  upward  in  its  rush  towards  the 
clouds.  This  ceremony  being  over,  the  world  was  left 
without  a  single  weapon  in  its  hands,  except,  possibly,  a 
few  old  king's  arms  and  rusty  swords,  and  other  trophies 
of  the  Revolution,  in  some-of  our  state  armories.  And 


136   MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

now  the  drums  were  beaten  and  the  trumpets  brayed 
all  together,  as  a  prelude  to  the  proclamation  of  univer- 
sal and  eternal  peace,  and  the  announcement  that  glory 
was  no  longer  to  be  won  by  blood ;  but  that  it  would 
henceforth  be  the  contention  of  the  human  race  to  work 
out  the  greatest  mutual  good,  and  that  beneficence,  in 
the  future  annals  of  the  earth,  would  claim  the  praise 
of  valor.  The  blessed  tidings  were  accordingly  promul- 
gated, and  caused  infinite  rejoicings  among  those  who 
had  stood  aghast  at  the  horror  and  absurdity  of  war. 

But  I  saw  a  grim  smile  pass  over  the  seared  visage  of 
a  stately  old  commander  —  by  his  war-worn  figure  and 
rich  military  dress,  he  might  have  been  one  of  Napo- 
leon's famous  marshals  —  who,  with  the  rest  of  the 
world's  soldiery,  had  just  flung  away  the  sword 
that  had  been  familiar  to  his  right  hand  for  half  a 
century. 

"  Aye,  aye  !  "  grumbled  he.  "  Let  them  proclaim 
what  they  please ;  but,  in  the  end,  we  shall  find  that  all 
this  foolery  has  only  made  more  work  for  the  armorers 
and  cannon-founders." 

"  Why,  sir,"  exclaimed  I,  in  astonishment,  "  do  you 
imagine  that  the  human  race  will  ever  so  far  return  on 
the  steps  of  its  past  madness  as  to  weld  another  sword, 
or  cast  another  cannon  ?  " 

"  There  will  be  no  need,"  observed,  with  a  sneer,  one 
who  neither  felt  benevolence,  nor  had  faith  in  it. 
"  When  Cain  wished  to  slay  his  brother,  he  was  at  no 
loss  for  a  weapon." 

"We  shall  see,"  replied  the  veteran  commander.  "If 
I  am  mistaken,  so  much  the  better ;  but  in  my  opinion 

—  without  pretending  to  philosophize  about  the  matter 

—  the  necessity  of  war  lies  far  deeper  than  these  honest 
gentlemen  suppose.     What !     Is  there  a  field  for  all  the 
petty  disputes  of  individuals,  and  shall  there  be  no  great 
law-court  for  the  settlement  of  national  difficulties  ?     The 
battle-field   is  the   only  court  where  such  suits  can  be 
tried !  " 

"You  forget,  general,"  rejoined  I,  "that,  in  this 
advanced  stage  of  civilization,  Reason  and  Philanthropy 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  137 

combined  will  constitute  just  such  a  tribunal  as  is 
requisite." 

"  Ah,  I  had  forgotten  that,  indeed !  "  said  the  old 
warrior,  as  he  limped  away. 

The  fire  was  now  to  be  replenished  with  materials 
that  had  hitherto  been  considered  of  even  greater  im- 
portance to  the  well-being  of  society,  than  the  warlike 
munitions  which  we  had  already  seen  consumed.  A 
body  of  reformers  had  travelled  all  over  the  earth,  in 
quest  of  the  machinery  by  which  the  different  nations 
were  accustomed  to  inflict  the  punishment  of  death.  A 
shudder  passed  through  the  multitude,  as  these  ghastly 
emblems  were  dragged  forward.  Even  the  flames 
seemed  at  first  to  shrink  away,  displaying  the  shape 
and  murderous  contrivance  of  each  in  a  full  blaze  of 
light,  which,  of  itself,  was  sufficient  to  convince  man- 
kind of  the  long  and  deadly  error  of  human  law.  Those 
old  implements  of  cruelty  —  those  horrible  monsters 
of  mechanism  —  those  inventions  which  it  seemed  to 
demand  something  worse  than  man's  natural  heart  to 
contrive,  and  which  had  lurked  in  the  dusky  nooks  of 
ancient  prisons,  the  subject  of  terror-stricken  legend 
—  were  now  brought  forth  to  view.  Headsmen's  axes, 
with  the  rust  of  noble  and  royal  blood  upon  them,  and 
a  vast  collection  of  halters  that  had  choked  the  breath 
of  plebeian  victims,  were  thrown  in  together.  A  shout 
greeted  the  arrival  of  the  guillotine,  which  was  thrust 
forward  on  the  same  wheels  that  had  borne  it  from  one' 
to  another  of  the  blood-stained  streets  of  Paris.  But 
the  loudest  roar  of  applause  went  up,  telling  the  dis- 
tant sky  of  the  triumph  of  the  earth's  redemption,  when 
the  gallows  made  its  appearance.  An  ill-looking  fellow, 
however,  rushed  forward,  and,  putting  himself  in  the 
path  of  the  reformers,  bellowed  hoarsely,  and  fought 
with  brute  fury  to  stay  their  progress. 

It  was  little  matter  of  surprise,  perhaps,  that  the 
executioner  should  thus  do  his  best  to  vindicate  and 
uphold  the  machinery  by  which  he  himself  had  his 
livelihood,  and  worthier  individuals  their  death.  But 
it  deserved  special  note,  that  men  of  a  far  different 


138   MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

sphere,  —  even  of  that  class  in  whose  guardianship  the 
world  is  apt  to  trust  its  benevolence  —  were  found  to 
take  the  hangman's  view  of  the  question. 

"  Stay,  my  brethren  !  "  cried  one  of  them.  "  You  are 
misled  by  a  false  philanthropy  !  —  you  know  not  what 
you  do.  The  gallows  is  a  Heaven-ordained  instrument ! 
Bear  it  back,  then,  reverently,  and  set  it  up  in  its  old 
place ;  else  the  world  will  fall  to  speedy  ruin  and 
desolation ! " 

"  Onward,  onward  !  "  shouted  a  leader  in  the  reform. 
"  Into  the  flames  with  the  accursed  instrument  of  man's 
bloody  policy.  How  can  human  law  inculcate  benevo- 
lence and  love,  while  it  persists  in  setting  up  the  gallows 
as  its  chief  symbol  ?  One  heave  more,  good  friends, 
and  the  world  will  be  redeemed  from  its  greatest 
error !  " 

A  thousand  hands,  that,  nevertheless,  loathed  the 
touch,  now  lent  their  assistance,  and  thrust  the  ominous 
burthen  far,  far,  into  the  centre  of  the  raging  furnace. 
There  its  fatal  and  abhorred  image  was  beheld,  first 
black,  then  a  red  coal,  then  ashes. 

"  That  was  well  done  !  "  exclaimed  I. 

"Yes,  it  was  well  done,"  replied  —  but  with  less 
enthusiasm  than  I  expected  —  the  thoughtful  observer 
who  was  still  at  my  side ;  "  well  done,  if  the  world  be 
good  enough  for  the  measure.  Death,  however,  is  an 
idea  that  cannot  easily  be  dispensed  with,  in  any  con- 
dition between  the  primal  innocence  and  that  other 
purity  and  perfection,  which,  perchance,  we  are  des- 
tined to  attain  after  travelling  round  the  full  circle. 
But,  at  all  events,  it  is  well  that  the  experiment  should 
now  be  tried." 

"  Too  cold !  too  cold  !  "  impatiently  exclaimed  the 
young  and  ardent  leader  in  this  triumph.  "  Let  the 
heart  have  its  voice  here,  as  well  as  the  intellect.  And 
as  for  ripeness — and  as  for  progress  —  let  mankind 
always  do  the  highest,  kindest,  noblest  thing  that,  at 
any  given  period,  it  has  attained  the  perception  of ; 
and  surely  that  thing  cannot  be  wrong,  nor  wrongly 
timed." 


EARTH'S   HOLOCAUST  139 

I  know  not  whether  it  were  the  excitement  of  the 
scene,  or  whether  the  good  people  around  the  bonfire 
were  really  growing  more  enlightened  every  instant; 
but  they  now  proceeded  to  measures,  in  the  full  length 
of  which  I  was  hardly  prepared  to  keep  them  company. 
For  instance,  some  threw  their  marriage  certificates  into 
the  flames,  and  declared  themselves  candidates  for  a 
higher,  holier,  and  more  comprehensive  union  than  that 
which  had  subsisted  from  the  birth  of  time,  under  the 
form  of  the  connubial  tie.  Others  hastened  to  the  vaults 
of  banks,  and  to  the  coffers  of  the  rich  —  all  of  which 
were  open  to  the  first  comer,  on  this  fated  occasion  — 
and  brought  entire  bales  of  paper-money  to  enliven  the 
blaze  and  tons  of  coin  to  be  melted  down  by  its  intensity. 
Henceforth,  they  said,  universal  benevolence,  uncoined 
and  exhaustless,  was  to  be  the  golden  currency  of  the 
world.  At  this  intelligence,  the  bankers,  and  specula- 
tors in  the  stocks,  grew  pale  ;  and  a  pickpocket,  who 
had  reaped  a  rich  harvest  among  the  crowd,  fell  down 
in  a  deadly  fainting-fit.  A  few  men  of  business  burnt 
their  day-books  and  ledgers,  the  notes  and  obligations  of 
their  creditors,  and  all  other  evidences  of  debts  due  to 
themselves ;  while  perhaps  a  somewhat  larger  number 
satisfied  their  zeal  for  reform  with  the  sacrifice  of  any 
uncomfortable  recollection  of  their  own  indebtment. 
There  was  then  a  cry,  that  the  period  was  arrived  when 
the  title-deeds  of  landed  property  should  be  given  to 
the  flames,  and  the  whole  soil  of  the  earth  revert  to  the 
public,  from  whom  it  had  been  wrongfully  abstracted, 
and  most  unequally  distributed  among  individuals.  An- 
other party  demanded  that  all  written  constitutions,  set 
forms  of  government,  legislative  acts,  statute-books,  and 
everything  else  on  which  human  invention  had  en- 
deavored to  stamp  its  arbitrary  laws,  should  at  once 
be  destroyed,  leaving  the  consummated  world  as  free  as 
the  man  first  created. 

Whether  any  ultimate  action  was  taken  with  regard 
to  these  propositions,  is  beyond  my  knowledge;  for, 
just  then,  some  matters  were  in  progress  that  concerned 
my  sympathies  more  nearly. 


140  MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

"  See  !  —  see  !  —  what  heaps  of  books  and  pam- 
phlets !  "  cried  a  fellow,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  a  lover 
of  literature.  "  Now  we  shall  have  a  glorious  blaze !  " 

"That's  just  the  thing,"  said  a  modern  philosopher. 
"  Now  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  weight  of  dead  men's 
thought,  which  has  hitherto  pressed  so  heavily  on  the 
living  intellect  that  it  has  been  incompetent  to  any 
effectual  self-exertion.  Well  done,  my  lads !  Into  the 
fire  with  them !  Now  you  are  enlightening  the  world, 
indeed !  " 

"  But  what  is  to  become  of  the  Trade  ? "  cried  a 
frantic  bookseller. 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  let  them  accompany  their  mer- 
chandise," coolly  observed  an  author.  "  It  will  be  a 
noble  funeral  pile  !  " 

The  truth  was,  that  the  human  race  had  now  reached 
a  stage  of  progress  so  far  beyond  what  the  wisest  and 
wittiest  men  of  former  ages  had  ever  dreamed  of,  that 
it  would  have  been  a  manifest  absurdity  to  allow  the 
earth  to  be  any  longer  encumbered  with  their  poor 
achievements  in  the  literary  line.  Accordingly,  a  thor- 
ough and  searching  investigation  had  swept  the  book- 
sellers' shops,  hawkers'  stands,  public  and  private 
libraries,  and  even  the  little  book-shelf  by  the  country 
fireside,  and  had  brought  the  world's  entire  mass  of 
printed  paper,  bound  or  in  sheets,  to  swell  the  already 
mountain-bulk  of  our  illustrious  bonfire.  Thick,  heavy 
folios,  containing  the  labors  of  lexicographers,  commen- 
tators, and  encyclopaedists,  were  flung  in,  and,  falling 
among  the  embers  with  a  leaden  thump,  smouldered 
away  to  ashes,  like  rotten  wood.  The  small,  richly  gilt 
French  tomes  of  the  last  age,  with  the  hundred  volumes 
of  Voltaire  among  them,  went  off  in  a  brilliant  shower 
of  sparkles  and  little  jets  of  flame ;  while  the  current 
literature  of  the  same  nation  burnt  red  and  blue,  and 
threw  an  infernal  light  over  the  visages  of  the  specta- 
tors, converting  them  all  to  the  aspect  of  parti-colored 
fiends.  A  collection  of  German  stories  emitted  a  scent 
of  brimstone.  The  English  standard  authors  made  ex- 
cellent fuel,  generally  exhibiting  the  properties  of  sound 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  141 

oak  logs.  Milton's  works,  in  particular,  sent  up  a  power- 
ful blaze,  gradually  reddening  into  a  coal,  which  prom- 
ised to  endure  longer  than  almost  any  other  material  of 
the  pile.  From  Shakespeare  there  gushed  a  flame  of 
such  marvellous  splendor  that  men  shaded  their  eyes 
as  against  the  sun's  meridian  glory ;  nor  even  when  the 
works  of  his  own  elucidators  were  flung  upon  him  did 
he  cease  to  flash  forth  a  dazzling  radiance  from  beneath 
the  ponderous  heap.  It  is  my  belief  that  he  is  still  blaz- 
ing as  fervidly  as  ever. 

"  Could  a  poet  but  light  a  lamp  at  that  glorious  flame," 
remarked  I,  "he  might  then  consume  the  midnight  oil 
to  some  good  purpose." 

"  That  is  the  very  thing  which  modern  poets  have 
been  too  apt  to  do,  or  at  least  to  attempt,"  answered  a 
critic.  "  The  chief  benefit  to  be  expected  from  this 
conflagration  of  past  literature  undoubtedly  is,  that 
writers  will  henceforth  be  compelled  to  light  their  lamps 
at  the  sun  or  stars." 

"  If  they  can  reach  so  high,"  said  I.  "  But  that  task 
requires  a  giant,  who  may  afterward  distribute  the  light 
among  inferior  men.  It  is  not  every  one  that  can  steal 
the  fire  from  heaven,  like  Prometheus ;  but  when  once 
he  had  done  the  deed,  a  thousand  hearths  were  kindled 
by  it." 

It  amazed  me  much  to  observe  how  indefinite  was 
the  proportion  between  the  physical  mass  of  any  given 
author,  and  the  property  of  brilliant  and  long-continued 
combustion.  For  instance,  there  was  not  a  quarto  vol- 
ume of  the  last  century  —  nor,  indeed,  of  the  present  — 
that  could  compete,  in  that  particular,  with  a  child's 
little  gilt-covered  book,  containing  Mother  Goose's  Mel- 
odies. The  Life  and  Death  of  Tom  Thumb  outlasted 
the  biography  of  Marlborough.  An  epic  —  indeed,  a 
dozen  of  them  —  was  converted  to  white  ashes,  before 
the  single  sheet  of  an  old  ballad  was  half  consumed. 
In  more  than  one  case,  too,  when  volumes  of  applauded 
verse  proved  incapable  of  anything  better  than  a  stifling 
smoke,  an  unregarded  ditty  of  some  nameless  bard  — 
perchance  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper  —  soared  up 


i42    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

among  the  stars,  with  a  flame  as  brilliant  as  their  own. 
Speaking  of  the  properties  of  flame,  methought  Shel- 
ley's poetry  emitted  a  purer  light  than  almost  any  other 
productions  of  his  day ;  contrasting  beautifully  with  the 
fitful  and  lurid  gleams,  and  gushes  of  black  vapor,  that 
flashed  and  eddied  from  the  volumes  of  Lord  Byron. 
As  for  Tom  Moore,  some  of  his  songs  diffused  an  odor 
like  a  burning  pastille. 

I  felt  particular  interest  in  watching  the  combustion 
of  American  authors,  and  scrupulously  noted,  by  my 
watch,  the  precise  number  of  moments  that  changed 
most  of  them  from  shabbily  printed  books  to  indistin- 
guishable ashes.  It  would  be  invidious,  however,  if 
not  perilous,  to  betray  these  awful  secrets;  so  that  I 
shall  content  myself  with  observing,  that  it  was  not 
invariably  the  writer  most  frequent  in  the  public  mouth 
that  made  the  most  splendid  appearance  in  the  bonfire. 
I  especially  remember,  that  a  great  deal  of  excellent 
inflammability  was  exhibited  in  a  thin  volume  of  poems 
by  Ellery  Channing ;  although,  to  speak  the  truth,  there 
were  certain  portions  that  hissed  and  spluttered  in  a 
very  disagreeable  fashion.  A  curious  phenomenon 
occurred  in  reference  to  several  writers,  native  as  well 
as  foreign.  Their  books,  though  of  highly  respectable 
figure,  instead  of  bursting  into  a  blaze,  or  even  smoul- 
dering out  their  substance  in  smoke,  suddenly  melted 
away,  in  a  manner  that  proved  them  to  be  ice. 

If  it  be  no  lack  of  modesty  to  mention  my  own  works, 
it  must  here  be  confessed,  that  I  looked  for  them  with 
fatherly  interest,  but  in  vain.  Too  probably,  they  were 
changed  to  vapor  by  the  first  action  of  the  heat;  at 
best,  I  can  only  hope  that,  in  their  quiet  way,  they  con- 
tributed a  glimmering  spark  or  two  to  the  splendor  of 
the  evening. 

"  Alas !  and  woe  is  me !  "  thus  bemoaned  himself  a 
heavy-looking  gentleman  in  green  spectacles.  "The 
world  is  utterly  ruined,  and  there  is  nothing  to  live  for 
any  longer !  The  business  of  my  life  is  snatched  from 
me.  Not  a  volume  to  be  had  for  love  or  money !  " 

"  This,"  remarked  the  sedate  observer  beside  me,  "is 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  143 

a  book-worm  —  one  of  those  men  who  are  born  to 
gnaw  dead  thoughts.  His  clothes,  you  see,  are  covered 
with  the  dust  of  libraries.  He  has  no  inward  fountain 
of  ideas ;  and,  in  good  earnest,  now  that  the  old  stock 
is  abolished,  I  do  not  see  what  is  to  become  of  the  poor 
fellow.  Have  you  no  word  of  comfort  for  him  ?  "  r  \ 

/'  My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  to  the  desperate  book-worm,  ^ 
''is  not  Nature  better  than  a  book ?/- is  not  the  human     \J 
heart  deeper  than  any  system  of  ^philosophy  ?  —  is  not 
life  replete  with  more  instruction  than  past  observers 
have  found  it  possible  to  write  down  in  maxims  ?     Be  of 
good  cheer !     The  great  book  of   Time  is  still  spread 
open  before  us ;  and,  if  we  read  it  aright,  it  will  be  to 
us  a  volume  of  eternal  Truth." 

"Oh,  my  books,  my  books,  my  precious  printed 
books  !  "  reiterated  the  forlorn  book-worm.  "  My  only 
reality  was  a  bound  volume ;  and  now  they  will  not 
leave  me  even  a  shadowy  pamphlet !  " 

In  fact,  the  last  remnant  of  the  literature  of  all  the 
ages  was  now  descending  upon  the  blazing  heap,  in  the 
shape  of  a  cloud  of  pamphlets  from  the  press  of 
the  New  World.  These,  likewise,  were  consumed  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  leaving  the  earth,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  days  of  Cadmus,  free  from  the  plague  of 
letters  —  an  enviable  field  for  the  authors  of  the  next 
generation ! 

"  Well !  —  and  does  anything  remain  to  be  done  ? " 
inquired  I,  somewhat  anxiously.  "  Unless  we  set  fire 
to  the  earth  itself,  and  then  leap  boldly  off  into  infinite 
space,  I  know  not  that  we  can  carry  reform  to  any 
further  point." 

"  You  are  vastly  mistaken,  my  good  friend,"  said  the 
observer.  "  Believe  me,  the  fire  will  not  be  allowed  to 
settle  down  without  the  addition  of  fuel  that  will 
startle  many  persons,  who  have  lent  a  willing  hand  thus 
far." 

Nevertheless,  there  appeared  to  be  a  relaxation  of 
effort,  for  a  little  time,  during  which,  probably,  the 
leaders  of  the  movement  were  considering  what  should 
be  done  next.  In  the  interval,  a  philosopher  threw  his 


i44    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    M^NSE 

theory  into  the  flames ;  a  sacrifice  which,  by  those  who 
knew  how  to  estimate  it,  was  pronounced  the  most 
remarkable  that  had  yet  been  made.  The  combustion, 
however,  was  by  no  means  brilliant.  Some  indefatiga- 
ble people,  scorning  to  take  a  moment's  ease,  now  em- 
ployed themselves  in  collecting  all  the  withered  leaves 
and  fallen  boughs  of  the  forest,  and  thereby  recruited 
the  bonfire  to  a  greater  height  than  ever.  But  this  was 
mere  by-play. 

"Here  comes  the  fresh  fuel  that  I  spoke  of,"  said  my 
companion. 

To  my  astonishment,  the  persons  who  now  advanced 
into  the  vacant  space  around  the  mountain  fire,  bore 
surplices  and  other  priestly  garments,  mitres,  crosiers, 
and  a  confusion  of  Popish  and  Protestant  emblems, 
with  which  it  seemed  their  purpose  to  consummate  the 
great  Act  of  Faith.  Crosses,  from  the  spires  of  old 
cathedrals,  were  cast  upon  the  heap  with  as  little 
remorse  as  if  the  reverence  of  centuries,  passing  in 
long  array  beneath  the  lofty  towers,  had  not  looked  up 
to  them  as  the  holiest  of  symbols.  The  font,  in  which 
infants  were  consecrated  to  God;  the  sacramental 
vessels,  whence  Piety  received  the  hallowed  draught ; 
were  given  to  the  same  destruction.  Perhaps  it  most 
nearly  touched  my  heart  to  see,  among  these  devoted 
relics,  fragments  of  the  humble  communion-tables  and 
undecorated  pulpits,  which  I  recognized  as  having  been 
torn  from  the  meeting-houses  of  New  England.  Those 
simple  edifices  might  have  been  permitted  to  retain  all 
of  sacred  embellishments  that  their  Puritan  founders 
had  bestowed,  even  though  the  mighty  structure  of  St. 
Peter's  had  sent  its  spoils  to  the  fire  of  this  terrible 
sacrifice.  Yet  I  felt  that  these  were  but  the  externals  of 
religion,  and  might  most  safely  be  relinquished  by 
spirits  that  best  knew  their  deep  significance. 

"All  is  well,"  said  I,  cheerfully.  "The  woodpaths 
shall  be  the  aisles  of  our  cathedral  —  the  firmament 
itself  shall  be  its  ceiling !  What  needs  an  earthly  roof 
between  the  Deity  and  his  worshippers  ?  Our  faith  can 
well  afford  to  lose  all  the  drapery  that  even  the  holiest 


EARTH'S    HOLOCAUST  145 

men  have  thrown  around  it,  and  be  only  the  more 
sublime  in  its  simplicity." 

"  True,"  said  my  companion.  "  But  will  they  pause 
here?" 

The  doubt  implied  in  his  question  was  well  founded. 
In  the  general  destruction  of  books  already  described, 
a  holy  volume  —  that  stood  apart  from  the  catalogue 
of  human  literature,  and  yet,  in  one  sense,  was  at  its 
head  —  had  been  spared.  But  the  Titan  of  innova- 
tion —  angel  or  fiend,  double  in  his  nature,  and  capable 
of  deeds  befitting  both  characters  —  at  first  shaking 
down  only  the  old  and  rotten  shapes  of  things,  had 
now,  as  it  appeared,  laid  his  terrible  hand  upon  the 
main  pillars  which  supported  the  whole  edifice  of  our 
moral  and  spiritual  state.  The  inhabitants  of  the  earth 
had  grown  too  enlightened  to  define  their  faith  within  a 
form  of  words,  or  to  limit  the  spiritual  by  any  analogy 
to  our  material  existence.  Truths,  which  the  heavens 
trembled  at,  were  now  but  a  fable  of  the  world's 
infancy.  Therefore,  as  the  final  sacrifice  of  human 
error,  what  else  remained  to  be  thrown  upon  the  embers 
of  that  awful  pile,  except  the  Book,  which,  though  a 
celestial  revelation  to  past  ages,  was  but  a  voice  from  a 
lower  sphere,  as  regarded  the  present  race  of  man  ?  It 
was  done !  Upon  the  blazing  heap  of  falsehood  and 
worn-out  truth — things  that  the  earth  had  never 
needed,  or  had  ceased  to  need,  or  had  grown  childishly 
weary  of  —  fell  the  ponderous  church  Bible,  the  great 
old  volume,  that  had  lain  so  long  on  the  cushion  of  the 
pulpit,  and  whence  the  pastor's  solemn  voice  had  given 
holy  utterance  on  so  many  a  Sabbath  day.  There, 
likewise,  fell  the  family  Bible,  which  the  long-buried 
patriarch  had  read  to  his  children  —  in  prosperity  or 
sorrow,  by  the  fireside  and  in  the  summer  shade  of 
trees  —  and  had  bequeathed  downward,  as  the  heirloom 
of  generations.  There  fell  the  bosom  Bible,  the  little 
volume  that  had  been  the  soul's  friend  of  some  sorely 
tried  child  of  dust,  who  thence  took  courage,  whether 
his  trial  were  for  life  or  death,  steadfastly  confronting 
both  in  the  strong  assurance  of  immortality. 


146    MOSSES   FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

All  these  were  flung  into  the  fierce  and  riotous  blaze  ; 
and  then  a  mighty  wind  came  roaring  across  the  plain, 
with  a  desolate  howl,  as  if  it  were  the  angry  lamenta- 
tions of  the  Earth  for  the  loss  of  Heaven's  sunshine, 
and  it  shook  the  gigantic  pyramid  of  flame,  and  scat- 
tered the  cinders  of  half-consumed  abominations  around 
upon  the  spectators. 

"  This  is  terrible ! "  said  I,  feeling  that  my  cheek 
grew  pale,  and  seeing  a  like  change  in  the  visages 
about  me. 

"Be  of  good  courage  yet,"  answered  the  man  with 
whom  I  had  so  often  spoken.  He  continued  to  gaze 
steadily  at  the  spectacle,  with  a  singular  calmness,  as  if 
it  concerned  him  merely  as  an  observer.  "  Be  of  good 
courage  —  nor  yet  exult  too  much  ;  for  there  is  far  less 
both  of  good  and  evil,  in  the  effect  of  this  bonfire,  than 
the  world  might  be  willing  to  believe." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  exclaimed  I,  impatiently.  "  Has 
it  not  consumed  everything  ?  Has  it  not  swallowed  up, 
or  melted  down,  every  human  or  divine  appendage  of 
our  mortal  state  that  had  substance  enough  to  be  acted 
on  by  fire  ?  Will  there  be  anything  left  us  to-morrow 
morning,  better  or  worse  than  a  heap  of  embers  and 
ashes  ? " 

"  Assuredly  there  will,"  said  my  grave  friend.  "  Come 
hither  to-morrow  morning  —  or  whenever  the  combus- 
tible portion  of  the  pile  shall  be  quite  burnt  out  —  and 
you  will  find  among  the  ashes  everything  really  valuable 
that  you  have  seen  cast  into  the  flames.  Trust  me,  the 
world  of  to-morrow  will  again  enrich  itself  with  the  gold 
and  diamonds  which  have  been  cast  off  by  the  world  of 
to-day.  Not  a  truth  is  destroyed  —  nor  buried  so  deep 
among  the  ashes,  but  it  will  be  raked  up  at  last." 

This  was  a  strange  assurance.  Yet  I  felt  inclined  to 
credit  it ;  the  more  especially  as  I  beheld  among  the 
wallowing  flames  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  the 
pages  of  which,  instead  of  being  blackened  into  tinder, 
only  assumed  a  more  dazzling  whiteness  as  the  finger- 
marks of  human  imperfection  were  purified  away.  Cer- 
tain marginal  notes  and  commentaries,  it  is  true,  yielded 


EARTH'S   HOLOCAUST  147 

to  the  intensity  of  the  fiery  test,  but  without  detriment 
to  the  smallest  syllable  that  had  flamed  from  the  pen  of 
inspiration. 

"  Yes  —  there  is  the  proof  of  what  you  say,"  answered 
I,  turning  to  the  observer.  "  But  if  only  what  is  evil 
can  feel  the  action  of  the  fire,  then,  surely,  the  conflagra- 
tion has  been  of  inestimable  utility.  Yet  if  I  understand 
aright,  you  intimate  a  doubt  whether  the  world's  expecta- 
tion of  benefit  would  be  realized  by  it." 

"  Listen  to  the  talk  of  these  worthies,"  said  he,  point- 
ing to  a  group  in  front  of  the  blazing  pile.  "  Possibly 
they  may  teach  you  something  useful,  without  intending 
it." 

The  persons  whom  he  indicated  consisted  of  that 
brutal  and  most  earthly  figure  who  had  stood  forth  so 
furiously  in  defence  of  the  gallows  —  the  hangman,  in 
short,  together  with  the  last  thief  and  the  last  murderer ; 
all  three  of  whom  were  clustered  about  the  last  toper. 
The  latter  was  liberally  passing  the  brandy  bottle,  which 
he  had  rescued  from  the  general  destruction  of  wines 
and  spirits.  This  little  convivial  party  seemed  at  the  low- 
est pitch  of  despondency ;  as  considering  that  the  puri- 
fied world  must  needs  be  utterly  unlike  the  sphere  that 
they  had  hitherto  known,  and  therefore  but  a  strange 
and  desolate  abode  for  gentlemen  of  their  kidney. 

"  The  best  counsel  for  all  of  us"  is,"  remarked  the 
hangman,  "that  —  as  soon  as  we  have  finished  the  last 
drop  of  liquor — I  help  you,  my  three  friends,  to  a  com- 
fortable end  upon  the  nearest  tree,  and  then  hang  my- 
self on  the  same  bough.  This  is  no  world  for  us  any 
longer." 

"  Poh,  poh,  my  good  fellows ! "  said  a  dark-com- 
plexioned personage,  who  now  joined  the  group  —  his 
complexion  was  indeed  fearfully  dark,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  with  a  redder  light  than  that  of  the  bonfire  — 
"  be  not  so  cast  down,  my  dear  friends ;  you  shall  see 
good  days  yet.  There  is  one  thing  that  these  wiseacres 
have  forgotten  to  throw  into  the  fire,  and  without  which 
all  the  rest  of  the  conflagration  is  just  nothing  at  all ;  yes 
—  though  they  had  burnt  the  earth  itself  to  a  cinder  ! " 


148    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

"And  what  may  that  be?"  eagerly  demanded  the  last 
murderer. 

"  What  but  the  human  heart  itself  ! "  said  the  dark- 
visaged  stranger,  with  a  portentous  grin.  "  And  unless 
they  hit  upon  some  method  of  purifying  that  foul  cavern, 
forth  from  it  will  re-issue  all  the  shapes  of  wrong  and 
misery  —  the  same  old  shapes,  or  worse  ones  —  which 
they  have  taken  such  a  vast  deal  of  trouble  to  consume 
to  ashes.  I  have  stood  by,  this  livelong  night,  and 
laughed  in  my  sleeve  at  the  whole  business.  Oh,  take 
my  word  for  it,  it  will  be  the  old  world  yet !  " 

This  brief  conversation  supplied  me  with  a  theme  for 
lengthened  thoughtyXHow  sad  a  truth  —  if  true  it  were 
— that  Man's  age-long  endeavor  for  perfection  had  served 
only  to  render  him  the  mockery  of  the  Evil  Principle, 
from  the  fatal  circumstance  of  an  error  at  the  very  root 
of  the  matter !/  /The  heart  —  the  heart  —  there  was  the 
little  yet  boundless  sphere,  wherein  existed  the  original 
wrong,  of  which  the  crime  and  misery  of  this  outward 
world  were  merely  types.  Purify  that  inward  sphere ; 
*\  and  the  many  shapes  of  evil  that  haunt  the  outward, 
and  which  now  seem  almost  our  only  realities,  will  turn 
to  shadowy  phantoms,  and  vanish  of  their  own  accord.  J 
But  if  we  go  no  deeper  than  the  Intellect,  and  strive,  / 
with  merely  that  feeble  instrument,  to  discern  and  rec- 
tify what  is  wrong,  our  whole  accomplishment  will  be  a 
dream;  so  unsubstantial,  that  it  matters  little  whether 
the  bonfire,  which  I  have  so  faithfully  described,  were 
what  we  choose  to  call  a  real  event,  and  a  flame  that 
would  scorch  the  finger — or  only  a  phosphoric  radiance, 
and  a  parable  of  my  own  brain ! 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  RELINQUISHED  WORK 


AT  HOME 

FROM  infancy  I  was  under  the  guardianship  of  a 
village  parson,  who  made  me  the  subject  of  daily 
prayer  and  the  sufferer  of  innumerable  stripes,  using  no 
distinction,  as  to  these  marks  of  paternal  love,  between 
myself  and  his  own  three  boys.  The  result,  it  must  be 
owned,  has  been  very  different  in  their  cases  and  mine, 
they  being  all  respectable  men  and  well  settled  in  life ; 
the  eldest  as  the  successor  to  his  father's  pulpit,  the 
second  as  a  physician,  and  the  third  as  a  partner  in  a 
wholesale  shoe-store ;  while  I,  with  better  prospects 
than  either  of  them,  have  run  the  course  which  this  vol- 
ume will  describe.  Yet  there  is  room  for  doubt  whether 
I  should  have  been  any  better  contented  with  such  suc- 
cess as  theirs  than  with  my  own  misfortunes,  —  at  least, 
till  after  my  experience  of  the  latter  had  made  it  too 
late  for  another  trial. 

My  guardian  had  a  name  of  considerable  eminence, 
and  fitter  for  the  place  it  occupies  in  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory than  for  so  frivolous  a  page  as  mine.  In  his  own 
vicinity,  among  the  lighter  part  of  his  hearers,  he  was 
called  Parson  Thumpcushion,  from  the  very  forcible 
gestures  with  which  he  illustrated  his  doctrines.  Cer- 
tainly, if  his  powers  as  a  preacher  were  to  be  estimated 
by  the  damage  done  to  his  pulpit-furniture,  none  of  his 
living  brethren,  and  but  few  dead  ones,  would  have  been 
worthy  even  to  pronounce  a  benediction  after  him. 
Such  pounding  and  expounding  the  moment  he  began 
to  grow  warm,  such  slapping  with  his  open  palm, 
thumping  with  his  closed  fist,  and  banging  with  the 
whole  weight  of  the  great  Bible,  convinced  me  that  he 
149 


150     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

held,  in  imagination,  either  the  Old  Nick  or  some  Uni- 
tarian infidel  at  bay,  and  belabored  his  unhappy  cushion 
as  proxy  for  those  abominable  adversaries.  Nothing  but 
this  exercise  of  the  body  while  delivering  his  sermons 
could  have  supported  the  good  parson's  health  under 
the  mental  toil  which  they  cost  him  in  composition. 

Though  Parson  Thumpcushion  had  an  upright  heart, 
and  some  called  it  a  warm  one,  he  was  invariably  stern 
and  severe,  on  principle,  I  suppose,  to  me.  With  late 
justice,  though  early  enough,  even  now,  to  be  tinctured 
with  generosity,  I  acknowledge  him  to  have  been  a 
good  and  wise  man  after  his  own  fashion.  If  his  man- 
agement failed  as  to  myself,  it  succeeded  with  his  three 
sons ;  nor,  I  must  frankly  say,  could  any  mode  of  edu- 
cation with  which  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be  acquainted 
have  made  me  much  better  than  what  I  was  or  led  me 
to  a  happier  fortune  than  the  present.  He  could  neither 
change  the  nature  that  God  gave  me  nor  adapt  his  own 
inflexible  mind  to  my  peculiar  character.  Perhaps  it 
was  my  chief  misfortune  that  I  had  neither  father  nor 
mother  alive;  for  parents  have  an  instinctive  sagacity 
in  regard  to  the  welfare  of  their  children,  and  the  child 
feels  a  confidence  both  in  the  wisdom  and  affection  of 
his  parents  which  he  cannot  transfer  to  any  delegate  of 
their  duties,  however  conscientious.  An  orphan's  fate 
is  hard,  be  he  rich  or  poor.  As  for  Parson  Thump- 
cushion,  whenever  I  see  the  old  gentleman  in  my  dreams 
he  looks  kindly  and  sorrowfully  at  me,  holding  out  his 
hand  as  if  each  had  something  to  forgive.  With  such 
kindness  and  such  forgiveness,  but  without  the  sorrow, 
may  our  next  meeting  be ! 

I  was  a  youth  of  gay  and  happy  temperament,  with 
an  incorrigible  levity  of  spirit,  of  no  vicious  propensities, 
sensible  enough,  but  wayward  and  fanciful.  What  a 
character  was  this  to  be  brought  in  contact  with  the 
stern  old  Pilgrim  spirit  of  my  guardian  !  We  were  at 
variance  on  a  thousand  points ;  but  our  chief  and  final 
dispute  arose  from  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  in- 
sisted on  my  adopting  a  particular  profession ;  while  I, 
being  heir  to  a  moderate  competence,  had  avowed  my 


A   RELINQUISHED    WORK         151 

purpose  of  keeping  aloof  from  the  regular  business  of 
life.  This  would  have  been  a  dangerous  resolution 
anywhere  in  the  world ;  it  was  fatal  in  New  England. 
There  is  a  grossness  in  the  conceptions  of  my  country- 
men ;  they  will  not  be  convinced  that  anv  good  thing 
may  consist  with  what  they  call  idleness/  they  can  an- 
ticipate nothing  but  evil  of  a  young  rr/an  who  neither 
studies  physic,  law,  nor  gospel,  nor  opens  a  store,  nor 
takes  to  farming,  but  manifests  an  incomprehensible 
disposition  to  be  satisfied  with  what  his  father  left  him. 
The  principle  is  excellent  in  its  general  influence,  but 
most  miserable  in  its  effect  on  the  few  that  violate  it. 
I  had  a  quick  sensitiveness  to  public  opinion,  and  felt 
as  if  it  ranked  me  with  the  tavern  haunters  and  town 
paupers,  —  with  the  drunken  poet  who  hawked  his  own 
Fourth  of  July  odes,  and  the  broken  soldier  who  had 
been  good  for  nothing  since  last  war.  The  conse- 
quence of  all  this  was  a  piece  of  light-hearted  despera- 
tion. 

I  do  not  overestimate  my  notoriety  when  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  many  of  my  readers  must  have  heard  of  me 
in  the  wild  way  of  life  which  I  adopted.  The  idea  of 
becoming  a  wandering  story-teller  had  been  suggested, 
a  year  or  two  before,  by  an  encounter  with  several 
merry  vagabonds  in  a  showman's  wagon,  where  they 
and  I  had  sheltered  ourselves  during  a  summer  shower. 
The  project  was  not  more  extravagant  than  most  which 
a  young  man  forms.  Stranger  ones  are  executed  every 
day ;  and,  not  to  mention  my  prototypes  in  the  East, 
and  the  wandering  orators  and  poets  whom  my  own 
ears  have  heard,  I  had  the  example  of  one  illustrious 
itinerant  in  the  other  hemisphere,  —  of  Goldsmith,  who 
planned  and  performed  his  travels  through  France  and 
Italy  on  a  less  promising  scheme  than  mine.  I  took 
credit  to  myself  for  various  qualifications,  mental  and 
personal,  suited  to  the  undertaking.  Besides,  my  mind 
had  latterly  tormented  me  for  employment,  keeping  up 
an  irregular  activity  even  in  sleep,  and  making  me  con- 
scious that  I  must  toil,  if  it  were  but  in  catching  butter- 
flies. But  my  chief  motives  were,  discontent  with  home 


152     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

and  a  bitter  grudge  against  Parson  Thumpcushion,  who 
would  rather  have  laid  me  in  my  father's  tomb  than 
seen  me  either  a  novelist  or  an  actor,  two  characters 
which  I  thus  hit  upon  a  method  of  uniting.  After  all, 
it  was  not  half  so  foolish  as  if  I  had  written  romances 
instead  of  reciting  them. 

The  following  pages  will  contain  a  picture  of  my 
vagrant  life,  intermixed  with  specimens,  generally  brief 
and  slight,  of  that  great  mass  of  fiction  to  which  I  gave 
existence,  and  which  has  vanished  like  cloud-shapes. 
Besides  the  occasions  when  I  sought  a  pecuniary  re- 
ward, I  was  accustomed  to  exercise  my  narrative  faculty 
wherever  chance  had  collected  a  little  audience  idle 
enough  to  listen.  These  rehearsals  were  useful  in  test- 
ing the  strong  points  of  my  stories ;  and,  indeed,  the 
flow  of  fancy  soon  came  upon  me  so  abundantly  that 
its  indulgence  was  its  own  reward,  though  the  hope  of 
praise  also  became  a  powerful  incitement.  Since  I 
shall  never  feel  the  warm  gush  of  new  thought  as  I  did 
then,  let  me  beseech  the  reader  to  believe  that  my  tales 
were  not  always  so  cold  as  he  may  find  them  now. 
With  each  specimen  will  be  given  a  sketch  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  the  story  was  told.  Thus  my 
air-drawn  pictures  will  be  set  in  frames  perhaps  more 
valuable  than  the  pictures  themselves,  since  they  will 
be  embossed  with  groups  of  characteristic  figures,  amid 
the  lake  and  mountain  scenery,  the  villages  and  fertile 
fields,  of  our  native  land.  But  I  write  the  book  for  the 
sake  of  its  moral,  which  many  a  dreaming  youth  may 
profit  by,  though  it  is  the  experience  of  a  wandering 
story-teller. 


A   FLIGHT   IN  THE   FOG 

I  set  out  on  my  rambles  one  morning  in  June  about 
sunrise.  The  day  promised  to  be  fair,  though  at  that 
early  hour  a  heavy  mist  lay  along  the  earth  and  settled 
in  minute  globules  on  the  folds  of  my  clothes,  so  that  I 
looked  precisely  as  if  touched  with  a  hoar-frost.  The 


A   RELINQUISHED   WORK         153 

sky  was  quite  obscured,  and  the  trees  and  houses  invis- 
ible till  they  grew  out  of  the  fog  as  I  came  close  upon 
them.  There  is  a  hill  towards  the  west  whence  the  road 
goes  abruptly  down,  holding  a  level  course  through  the 
village  and  ascending  an  eminence  on  the  other  side, 
behind  which  it  disappears.  The  whole  view  comprises 
an  extent  of  half  a  mile.  Here  I  paused;  and,  while 
gazing  through  the  misty  veil,  it  partially  rose  and  swept 
away  with  so  sudden  an  effect  that  a  gray  cloud  seemed 
to  have  taken  the  aspect  of  a  small  white  town.  A  thin 
vapor  being  still  diffused  through  the  atmosphere,  the 
wreaths  and  pillars  of  fog,  whether  hung  in  air  or 
based  on  earth,  appeared  not  less  substantial  than  the 
edifices,  and  gave  their  own  indistinctness  to  the  whole. 
It  was  singular  that  such  an  unromantic  scene  should 
look  so  visionary. 

Half  of  the  parson's  dwelling  was  a  dingy  white  house, 
and  half  of  it  was  a  cloud ;  but  Squire  Moody's  man- 
sion, the  grandest  in  the  village,  was  wholly  visible, 
even  the  lattice-work  of  the  balcony  under  the  front 
window ;  while  in  another  place  only  two  red  chimneys 
were  seen  above  the  mist,  appertaining  to  my  own  pa- 
ternal residence,  then  tenanted  by  strangers.  I  could 
not  remember  those  with  whom  I  had  dwelt  there,  not 
even  my  mother.  The  brick  edifice  of  the  bank  was  in 
the  clouds ;  the  foundations  of  what  was  to  be  a  great 
block  of  buildings  had  vanished,  ominously,  as  it  proved ; 
the  dry-goods  store  of  Mr.  Nightingale  seemed  a  doubt- 
ful concern ;  and  Dominicus  Pike's  tobacco  manufactory 
an  affair  of  smoke,  except  the  splendid  image  of  an 
Indian  chief  in  front.  The  white  spire  of  the  meeting- 
house ascended  out  of  the  densest  heap  of  vapor,  as  if 
that  shadowy  base  were  its  only  support :  or,  to  give  a 
truer  interpretation,  the  steeple  was  the  emblem  of 
Religion,  enveloped  in  mystery  below,  yet  pointing  to  a 
cloudless  atmosphere,  and  catching  the  brightness  of  the 
east  on  its  gilded  vane. 

As  I  beheld  these  objects,  and  the  dewy  street,  with 
grassy  intervals  and  a  border  of  trees  between  the  wheel- 
track  and  the  sidewalks,  all  so  indistinct,  and  not  to  be 


154     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

traced  without  an  effort,  the  whole  seemed  more  like 
memory  than  reality.  I  would  have  imagined  that  years 
had  already  passed,  and  I  was  far  away,  contemplating 
that  dim  picture  of  my  native  place,  which  I  should  retain 
in  my  mind  through  the  mist  of  time.  No  tears  fell  from 
my  eyes  among  the  dewdrops  of  the  morning ;  nor  does 
it  occur  to  me  that  I  heaved  a  sigh.  In  truth,  I  had 
never  felt  such  a  delicious  excitement  nor  known  what 
freedom  was  till  that  moment  when  I  gave  up  my  home 
and  took  the  whole  world  in  exchange,  fluttering  the 
wings  of  my  spirit  as  if  I  would  have  flown  from  one  star 
to  another  through  the  universe.  I  waved  my  hand 
towards  the  dusky  village,  bade  it  a  joyous  farewell,  and 
turned  away  to  follow  any  path  but  that  which  might 
lead  me  back.  Never  was  Childe  Harold's  sentiment 
adopted  in  a  spirit  more  unlike  his  own. 

Naturally  enough,  I  thought  of  Don  Quixote.  Recol- 
lecting how  the  knight  and  Sancho  had  watched  for 
auguries  when  they  took  the  road  to  Toboso,  I  began, 
between  jest  and  earnest,  to  feel  a  similar  anxiety.  It 
was  gratified,  and  by  a  more  poetical  phenomenon  than 
the  braying  of  the  dappled  ass  or  the  neigh  of  Rosinante. 
The  sun,  then  just  above  the  horizon,  shone  faintly 
through  the  fog,  and  formed  a  species  of  rainbow  in  the 
west,  bestriding  my  intended  road  like  a  gigantic  portal. 
I  had  never  known  before  that  a  bow  could  be  generated 
between  the  sunshine  and  the  morning  mist.  It  had  no 
brilliancy,  no  perceptible  hues,  but  was  a  mere  unpainted 
framework,  as  white  and  ghostlike  as  the  lunar  rainbow, 
which  is  deemed  ominous  of  evil.  But,  with  a  light 
heart,  to  which  all  omens  were  propitious,  I  advanced 
beneath  the  misty  archway  of  futurity. 

I  had  determined  not  to  enter  on  my  profession  within 
a  hundred  miles  of  home,  and  then  to  cover  myself  with 
a  fictitious  name.  The  first  precaution  was  reasonable 
enough,  as  otherwise  Parson  Thumpcushion  might  have 
put  an  untimely  catastrophe  to  my  story  ;  but  as  nobody 
would  be  much  affected  by  my  disgrace,  and  all  was  to 
be  suffered  in  my  own  person,  I  know  not  why  I  cared 
about  a  name.  For  a  week  or  two  I  travelled  almost  at 


A   RELINQUISHED    WORK         155 

random,  seeking  hardly  any  guidance  except  the  whirl- 
ing of  a  leaf  at  some  turn  of  the  road,  or  the  green  bough 
that  beckoned  me,  or  the  naked  branch  that  pointed  its 
withered  finger  onward.  All  my  care  was  to  be  farther 
from  home  each  night  than  the  preceding  morning. 


A   FELLOW-TRAVELLER 

One  day  at  noontide,  when  the  sun  had  burst  suddenly 
out  of  a  cloud,  and  threatened  to  dissolve  me,  I  looked 
round  for  shelter,  whether  of  tavern,  cottage,  barn,  or 
shady  tree.  The  first  which  offered  itself  was  a  wood,  — 
not  a  forest,  but  a  trim  plantation  of  young  oaks,  grow- 
ing just  thick  enough  to  keep  the  mass  of  sunshine  out, 
while  they  admitted  a  few  straggling  beams,  and  thus 
produced  the  most  cheerful  gloom  imaginable.  A  brook, 
so  small  and  clear,  and  apparently  so  cool,  that  I  wanted 
to  drink  it  up,  ran  under  the  road  through  a  little  arch 
of  stone  without  once  meeting  the  sun  in  its  passage  from 
the  shade  on  one  side  to  the  shade  on  the  other.  As 
there  was  a  stepping-place  over  the  stone  wall  and  a 
path  along  the  rivulet,  I  followed  it  and  discovered  its 
source,  —  a  spring  gushing  out  of  an  old  barrel. 

In  this  pleasant  spot  I  saw  a  light  pack  suspended 
from  the  branch  of  a  tree,  a  stick  leaning  against  the 
trunk,  and  a  person  seated  on  the  grassy  verge  of  the 
spring  with  its  back  towards  me.  He  was  a  slender 
figure,  dressed  in  black  broadcloth,  which  was  none  of 
the  finest  nor  very  fashionably  cut.  On  hearing  my 
footsteps  he  started  up  rather  nervously,  and,  turning 
round,  showed  the  face  of  a  young  man  about  my  own 
age,  with  his  finger  in  a  volume  which  he  had  been 
reading  till  my  intrusion.  His  book  was  evidently  a 
pocket  Bible.  Though  I  piqued  myself  at  that  period 
on  my  great  penetration  into  people's  characters  and 
pursuits,  I  could  not  decide  whether  this  young  man  in 
black  were  an  unfledged  divine  from  Andover,  a  college 
student,  or  preparing  for  college  at  some  academy.  In 
either  case  I  would  quite  as  willingly  have  found  a 


156     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

merrier  companion ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  comedian 
with  whom  Gil  Bias  shared  his  dinner  beside  a  fountain 
in  Spain. 

After  a  nod,  which  was  duly  returned,  I  made  a  gob- 
let of  oak  leaves,  filled  and  emptied  it  two  or  three 
times,  and  then  remarked,  to  hit  the  stranger's  classical 
associations,  that  this  beautiful  fountain  ought  to  flow 
from  an  urn  instead  of  an  old  barrel.  He  did  not  show 
that  he  understood  the  allusion,  and  replied  very  briefly, 
with  a  shyness  that  was  quite  out  of  place  between  per- 
sons who  met  in  such  circumstances.  Had  he  treated 
my  next  observation  in  the  same  way,  we  should  have 
parted  without  another  word. 

"It  is  very  singular,"  said  I,  —  "though  doubtless 
there  are  good  reasons  for  it,  —  that  Nature  should  pro- 
vide drink  so  abundantly,  and  lavish  it  everywhere  by 
the  roadside,  but  so  seldom  anything  to  eat.  Why 
should  not  we  find  a  loaf  of  bread  on  this  tree  as  well 
as  a  barrel  of  good  liquor  at  the  foot  of  it  ? " 

"  There  is  a  loaf  of  bread  on  the  tree,"  replied  the 
stranger,  without  even  smiling  at  a  coincidence  which 
made  me  laugh.  "  I  have  something  to  eat  in  my  bun- 
dle ;  and,  if  you  can  make  a  dinner  with  me,  you  shall 
be  welcome." 

"  I  accept  your  offer  with  pleasure,"  said  I.  "  A  pil- 
grim such  as  I  am  must  not  refuse  a  providential  meal." 

The  young  man  had  risen  to  take  his  bundle  from  the 
branch  of  the  tree,  but  now  turned  round  and  regarded 
me  with  great  earnestness,  coloring  deeply  at  the  same 
time.  However,  he  said  nothing,  and  produced  part  of 
a  loaf  of  bread  and  some  cheese,  the  former  being  evi- 
dently home  baked,  though  some  days  out  of  the  oven. 
The  fare  was  good  enough,  with  a  real  welcome,  such  as 
his  appeared  to  be.  After  spreading  these  articles  on 
the  stump  of  a  tree,  he  proceeded  to  ask  a  blessing  on 
our  food,  an  unexpected  ceremony,  and  quite  an  impres- 
sive one  at  our  woodland  table,  with  the  fountain  gush- 
ing beside  us  and  the  bright  sky  glimmering  through 
the  boughs;  nor  did  his  brief  petition  affect  me  less 
because  his  embarrassment  made  his  voice  tremble.  At 


A    RELINQUISHED    WORK         157 

the  end  of  the  meal  he  returned  thanks  with  the  same 
tremulous  fervor. 

He  felt  a  natural  kindness  for  me  after  thus  relieving 
my  necessities,  and  showed  it  by  becoming  less  reserved. 
On  my  part,  I  professed  never  to  have  relished  a  dinner 
better ;  and,  in  requital  of  the  stranger's  hospitality, 
solicited  the  pleasure  of  his  company  to  supper. 

"  Where  ?     At  your  home  ? "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  smiling. 

"  Perhaps  our  roads  are  not  the  same,"  observed  he. 

"  Oh,  I  can  take  any  road  but  one,  and  yet  not  miss 
my  way,"  answered  I.  "This  morning  I  breakfasted  at 
home  ;  I  shall  sup  at  home  to-night ;  and  a  moment  ago 
I  dined  at  home.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a  certain  place 
which  I  called  home ;  but  I  have  resolved  not  to  see  it 
again  till  I  have  been  quite  round  the  globe  and  enter 
the  street  on  the  east  as  I  left  it  on  the  west.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  have  a  home  everywhere,  or  nowhere,  just 
as  you  please  to  take  it." 

"  Nowhere,  then  ;  for  this  transitory  world  is  not  our 
home,"  said  the  young  man,  with  solemnity.  "We  are 
all  pilgrims  and  wanderers;  but  it  is  strange  that  we 
two  should  meet." 

I  inquired  the  meaning  of  this  remark,  but  could 
obtain  no  satisfactory  reply.  But  we  had  eaten  salt 
together,  and  it  was  right  that  we  should  form  acquaint- 
ance after  that  ceremony  as  the  Arabs  of  the  desert 
do,  especially  as  he  had  learned  something  about  my- 
self, and  the  courtesy  of  the  country  entitled  me  to  as 
much  information  in  return.  I  asked  whither  he  was 
travelling. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  he ;  "but  God  knows." 

"That  is  strange!"  exclaimed  I;  "not  that  God 
should  know  it,  but  that  you  should  not.  And  how  is 
your  road  to  be  pointed  out  ? " 

"  Perhaps  by  an  inward  conviction,"  he  replied,  look- 
ing sideways  at  me  to  discover  whether  I  smiled ;  "  per- 
haps by  an  outward  sign." 

"Then,  believe  me,"  said  I,  "the  outward  sign  is 
already  granted  you,  and  the  inward  conviction  ought 


158     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

to  follow.  We  are  told  of  pious  men  in  old  times  who 
committed  themselves  to  the  care  of  Providence,  and 
saw  the  manifestation  of  its  will  in  the  slightest  circum- 
stances, as  in  the  shooting  of  a  star,  the  flight  of  a  bird, 
or  the  course  taken  by  some  brute  animal.  Sometimes 
even  a  stupid  ass  was  their  guide.  May  I  not  be  as 
good  a  one  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  pilgrim,  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity. 

We  did,  however,  follow  the  same  road,  and  were  not 
overtaken,  as  I  partly  apprehended,  by  the  keepers  of 
any  lunatic  asylum  in  pursuit  of  a  stray  patient.  Per- 
haps the  stranger  felt  as  much  doubt  of  my  sanity  as  I 
did  of  his,  though  certainly  with  less  justice,  since  I  was 
fully  aware  of  my  own  extravagances,  while  he  acted  as 
wildly,  and  deemed  it  heavenly  wisdom.  We  were  a 
singular  couple,  strikingly  contrasted,  yet  curiously  as- 
similated, each  of  us  remarkable  enough  by  himself,  and 
doubly  so  in  the  other's  company.  Without  any  formal 
compact,  we  kept  together  day  after  day  till  our  union 
appeared  permanent.  Even  had  I  seen  nothing  to  love 
and  admire  in  him,  I  could  never  have  thought  of  desert- 
ing one  who  needed  me  continually ;  for  I  never  knew 
a  person,  not  even  a  woman,  so  unfit  to  roam  the  world 
in  solitude  as  he  was,  —  so  painfully  shy,  so  easily  dis- 
couraged by  slight  obstacles,  and  so  often  depressed  by 
a  weight  within  himself. 

I  was  now  far  from  my  native  place,  but  had  not  yet 
stepped  before  the  public.  A  slight  tremor  seized  me 
whenever  I  thought  of  relinquishing  the  immunities  of 
a  private  character,  and  giving  every  man,  and  for 
money  too,  the  right  which  no  man  yet  possessed,  of 
treating  me  with  open  scorn.  But  about  a  week  after 
contracting  the  above  alliance  I  made  my  bow  to  an 
audience  of  nine  persons,  seven  of  whom  hissed  me  in  a 
very  disagreeable  manner,  and  not  without  good  cause. 
Indeed,  the  failure  was  so  signal  that  it  would  have  been 
mere  swindling  to  retain  the  money,  which  had  been 
paid  on  my  implied  contract  to  give  its  value  of  amuse- 
ment. So  I  called  in  the  doorkeeper,  bade  him  refund 


A   RELINQUISHED   WORK         159 

the  whole  receipts,  a  mighty  sum,  and  was  gratified 
with  a  round  of  applause  by  way  of  offset  to  the  hisses. 
This  event  would  have  looked  most  horrible  in  antici- 
pation, —  a  thing  to  make  a  man  shoot  himself,  or  run 
amuck,  or  hide  himself  in  caverns  where  he  might  not 
see  his  own  burning  blush ;  but  the  reality  was  not  so 
very  hard  to  bear.  It  is  a  fact  that  I  was  more  deeply 
grieved  by  an  almost  parallel  misfortune  which  hap- 
pened to  my  companion  on  the  same  evening.  In  my 
own  behalf  I  was  angry  and  excited,  not  depressed ;  my 
blood  ran  quick,  my  spirits  rose  buoyantly,  and  I  had 
never  felt  such  a  confidence  of  future  success  and  deter- 
mination to  achieve  it  as  at  that  trying  moment.  I 
resolved  to  persevere,  if  it  were  only  to  wring  the 
reluctant  praise  from  my  enemies. 

Hitherto  I  had  immensely  underrated  the  difficulties 
of  my  idle  trade ;  now  I  recognized  that  it  demanded 
nothing  short  of  my  whole  powers  cultivated  to  the  ut- 
most, and  exerted  with  the  same  prodigality  as  if  I  were 
speaking  for  a  great  party  or  for  the  nation  at  large  on 
the  floor  of  the  Capitol.  No  talent  or  attainment  could 
come  amiss;  everything,  indeed,  was  requisite, — wide 
observation,  varied  knowledge,  deep  thoughts,  and  spar- 
kling ones ;  pathos  and  levity,  and  a  mixture  of  both,  like 
sunshine  in  a  raindrop ;  lofty  imagination,  veiling  itself 
in  the  garb  of  common  life ;  and  the  practised  art  which 
alone  could  render  these  gifts,  and  more  than  these, 
available.  Not  that  I  ever  hoped  to  be  thus  qualified. 
But  my  despair  was  no  ignoble  one ;  for,  knowing  the 
impossibility  of  satisfying  myself,  even  should  the  world 
be  satisfied,  I  did  my  best  to  overcome  it ;  investigated 
the  causes  of  every  defect ;  and  strove,  with  patient 
stubbornness,  to  remove  them  in  the  next  attempt.  It 
is  one  of  my  few  sources  of  pride,  that,  ridiculous  as 
the  object  was,  I  followed  it  up  with  the  firmness  and 
energy  of  a  man. 

I  manufactured  a  great  variety  of  plots  and  skeletons 
of  tales,  and  kept  them  ready  for  use,  leaving  the  filling 
up  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment ;  though  I  cannot 
remember  ever  to  have  told  a  tale  which  did  not  vary 


160     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

considerably  from  my  preconceived  idea,  and  acquire 
a  novelty  of  aspect  as  often  as  I  repeated  it.  Oddly 
enough,  my  success  was  generally  in  proportion  to  the 
difference  between  the  conception  and  accomplishment. 
I  provided  two  or  more  commencements  and  catastrophes 
to  many  of  the  tales,  —  a  happy  expedient,  suggested  by 
the  double  sets  of  sleeves  and  trimmings  which  diversi- 
fied the  suits  in  Sir  Piercy  Shafton's  wardrobe.  But  my 
best  efforts  had  a  unity,  a  wholeness,  and  a  separate 
character  that  did  not  admit  of  this  sort  of  mechanism. 


THE   VILLAGE   THEATRE 

About  the  first  of  September,  my  fellow-traveller  and 
myself  arrived  at  a  country  town,  where  a  small  com- 
pany of  actors,  on  their  return  from  a  summer's  cam- 
paign in  the  British  Provinces,  were  giving  a  series  of 
dramatic  exhibitions.  A  moderately  sized  hall  of  the 
tavern  had  been  converted  into  a  theatre.  The  per- 
formances that  evening  were,  The  Heir  at  Law,  and  No 
Song,  no  Supper,  with  the  recitation  of  Alexander's 
Feast  between  the  play  and  farce.  The  house  was  thin 
and  dull.  But  the  next  day  there  appeared  to  be  brighter 
prospects,  the  playbills  announcing  at  every  corner,  on 
the  town-pump,  and — awful  sacrilege! — on  the  very  door 
of  the  meeting-house,  an  Unprecedented  Attraction ! 
After  setting  forth  the  ordinary  entertainments  of  a 
theatre,  the  public  were  informed,  in  the  hugest  type  that 
the  printing-office  could  supply,  that  the  manager  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  accomplish  an  engagement 
with  the  celebrated  Story-Teller.  He  would  make  his 
first  appearance  that  evening,  and  recite  his  famous  tale 
of  Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe,  which  had  been 
received  with  rapturous  applause  by  audiences  in  all  the 
principal  cities.  This  outrageous  flourish  of  trumpets, 
be  it  known,  was  wholly  unauthorized  by  me,  who  had 
merely  made  an  engagement  for  a  single  evening,  with- 
out assuming  any  more  celebrity  than  the  little  I  pos- 
sessed. As  for  the  tale,  it  could  hardly  have  been 


A   RELINQUISHED   WORK         161 

applauded  by  rapturous  audiences,  being  as  yet  an  un- 
filled plot;  nor  even  when  I  stepped  upon  the  stage 
was  it  decided  whether  Mr.  Higginbotham  should  live 
or  die. 

In  two  or  three  places,  underneath  the  flaming  bills 
which  announced  the  Story-Teller,  was  pasted  a  small 
slip  of  paper,  giving  notice,  in  tremulous  characters,  of 
a  religious  meeting  to  be  held  at  the  school-house,  where, 
with  divine  permission,  Eliakim  Abbott  would  address 
sinners  on  the  welfare  of  their  immortal  souls. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  commencement  of  the  tragedy 
of  Douglas,  I  took  a  ramble  through  the  town  to  quicken 
my  ideas  by  active  motion.  My  spirits  were  good,  with 
a  certain  glow  of  mind  which  I  had  already  learned  to 
depend  upon  as  the  sure  prognostic  of  success.  Pass- 
ing a  small  and  solitary  school-house,  where  a  light  was 
burning  dimly  and  a  few  people  were  entering  the  door, 
I  went  in  with  them,  and  saw  my  friend  Eliakim  at  the 
desk.  He  had  collected  about  fifteen  hearers,  mostly 
females.  Just  as  I  entered  he  was  beginning  to  pray  in 
accents  so  low  and  interrupted  that  he  seemed  to  doubt 
the  reception  of  his  efforts  both  with  God  and  man. 
There  was  room  for  distrust  in  regard  to  the  latter.  At 
the  conclusion  of  the  prayer  several  of  the  little  audi- 
ence went  out,  leaving  him  to  begin  his  discourse  under 
such  discouraging  circumstances,  added  to  his  natural 
and  agonizing  diffidence.  Knowing  that  my  presence 
on  these  occasions  increased  his  embarrassment,  I  had 
stationed  myself  in  a  dusky  place  near  the  door,  and 
now  stole  softly  out. 

On  my  return  to  the  tavern  the  tragedy  was  already 
concluded ;  and,  being  a  feeble  one  in  itself  and  indiffer- 
ently performed,  it  left  so  much  the  better  chance  for 
the  Story-Teller.  The  bar  was  thronged  with  customers, 
the  toddy-stick  keeping  a  continual  tattoo ;  while  in  the 
hall  there  was  a  broad,  deep,  buzzing  sound,  with  an 
occasional  peal  of  impatient  thunder,  —  all  symptoms  of 
an  overflowing  house  and  an  eager  audience.  I  drank 
a  glass  of  wine-and-water,  and  stood  at  the  side  scene 
conversing  with  a  young  person  of  doubtful  sex.  If  a 


162     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

gentleman,  how  could  he  have  performed  the  singing  girl 
the  night  before  in  No  Song,  no  Supper  ?  Or,  if  a  lady, 
why  did  she  enact  Young  Norval,  and  now  wear  a  green 
coat  and  white  pantaloons  in  the  character  of  Little 
Pickle?  In  either  case  the  dress  was  pretty  and  the 
wearer  bewitching ;  so  that,  at  the  proper  moment,  I 
stepped  forward  with  a  gay  heart  and  a  bold  one ;  while 
the  orchestra  played  a  tune  that  had  resounded  at  many 
a  country  ball,  and  the  curtain,  as  it  rose,  discovered 
something  like  a  country  bar-room.  Such  a  scene  was 
well  enough  adapted  to  such  a  tale. 

The  orchestra  of  our  little  theatre  consisted  of  two 
riddles  and  a  clarinet ;  but,  if  the  whole  harmony  of  the 
Tremont  had  been  there,  it  might  have  swelled  in  vain 
beneath  the  tumult  of  applause  that  greeted  me.  The 
good  people  of  the  town,  knowing  that  the  world  con- 
tained innumerable  persons  of  celebrity  undreamed  of 
by  them,  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was  one,  and  that 
their  roar  of  welcome  was  but  a  feeble  echo  of  those 
which  had  thundered  around  me  in  lofty  theatres.  Such 
an  enthusiastic  uproar  was  never  heard.  Each  person 
seemed  a  Briareus  clapping  a  hundred  hands,  besides 
keeping  his  feet  and  several  cudgels  in  play  with  stamp- 
ing and  thumping  on  the  floor ;  while  the  ladies  flour- 
ished their  white  cambric  handkerchiefs,  intermixed  with 
yellow  and  red  bandanna,  like  the  flags  of  different 
nations.  After  such  a  salutation,  the  celebrated  Story- 
Teller  felt  almost  ashamed  to  produce  so  humble  an 
affair  as  Mr.  Higginbotham's  Catastrophe. 

This  story  was  originally  more  dramatic  than  as  there 
presented,  and  afforded  good  scope  for  mimicry  and  buf- 
foonery, neither  of  which,  to  my  shame,  did  I  spare.  I 
never  knew  the  "magic  of  a  name"  till  I  used  that  of 
Mr.  Higginbotham.  Often  as  I  repeated  it,  there  were 
louder  bursts  of  merriment  than  those  which  responded 
to  what,  in  my  opinion,  were  more  legitimate  strokes  of 
humor.  The  success  of  the  piece  was  incalculably  height- 
ened by  a  stiff  cue  of  horsehair,  which  Little  Pickle,  in 
the  spirit  of  that  mischief -loving  character,  had  fastened 
to  my  collar,  where,  unknown  to  me,  it  kept  making  the 


A   RELINQUISHED   WORK         163 

queerest  gestures  of  its  own  in  correspondence  with  all 
mine.  The  audience,  supposing  that  some  enormous 
joke  was  appended  to  this  long  tail  behind,  were  inef- 
fably delighted,  and  gave  way  to  such  a  tumult  of  appro- 
bation that,  just  as  the  story  closed,  the  benches  broke 
beneath  them  and  left  one  whole  row  of  my  admirers 
on  the  floor.  Even  in  that  predicament  they  continued 
their  applause.  In  after  times,  when  I  had  grown  a 
bitter  moralizer,  I  took  this  scene  for  an  example  how 
much  of  fame  is  humbug ;  how  much  the  meed  of  what 
our  better  nature  blushes  at;  how  much  an  accident; 
how  much  bestowed  on  mistaken  principles ;  and  how 
small  and  poor  the  remnant.  From  pit  and  boxes  there 
was  now  a  universal  call  for  the  Story-Teller. 

That  celebrated  personage  came  not  when  they  did 
call  to  him.  As  I  left  the  stage,  the  landlord,  being 
also  the  postmaster,  had  given  me  a  letter  with  the 
postmark  of  my  native  village,  and  directed  to  my 
assumed  name  in  the  stiff  old  handwriting  of  Parson 
Thumpcushion.  Doubtless  he  had  heard  of  the  rising 
renown  of  the  Story-Teller,  and  conjectured  at  once 
that  such  a  nondescript  luminary  could  be  no  other 
than  his  lost  ward.  His  epistle,  though  I  never  read 
it,  affected  me  most  painfully.  I  seemed  to  see  the 
Puritanic  figure  of  my  guardian  standing  among  the 
fripperies  of  the  theatre  and  pointing  to  the  players, 
—  the  fantastic  and  effeminate  men,  the  painted  women, 
the  giddy  girl  in  boy's  clothes,  merrier  than  modest,  — 
pointing  to  these  with  solemn  ridicule,  and  eying  me 
with  stern  rebuke.  His  image  was  a  type  of  the  austere 
duty,  and  they  of  the  vanities  of  life. 

I  hastened  with  the  letter  to  my  chamber  and  held  it 
unopened  in  my  hand,  while  the  applause  of  my  buffoon- 
ery yet  sounded  through  the  theatre.  Another  train  of 
thought  came  over  me.  The  stern  old  man  appeared 
again,  but  now  with  the  gentleness  of  sorrow,  softening 
his  authority  with  love  as  a  father  might,  and  even  bend- 
ing his  venerable  head,  as  if  to  say  that  my  errors  had 
an  apology  in  his  own  mistaken  discipline.  I  strode 
twice  across  the  chamber,  then  held  the  letter  in  the 


164     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

flame  of  the  candle,  and  beheld  it  consume  unread.  It 
is  fixed  in  my  mind,  and  was  so  at  the  time,  that  he  had 
addressed  me  in  a  style  of  paternal  wisdom,  and  love, 
and  reconciliation  which  I  could  not  have  resisted  had 
I  but  risked  the  trial.  The  thought  still  haunts  me  that 
then  I  made  my  irrevocable  choice  between  good  and 
evil  fate. 

Meanwhile,  as  this  occurrence  had  disturbed  my  mind 
and  indisposed  me  to  the  present  exercise  of  my  profes- 
sion, I  left  the  town,  in  spite  of  a  laudatory  critique  in 
the  newspaper,  and  untempted  by  the  liberal  offers  of 
the  manager.  As  we  walked  onward,  following  the 
same  road,  on  two  such  different  errands,  Eliakim 
groaned  in  spirit,  and  labored  with  tears  to  convince 
me  of  the  guilt  and  madness  of  my  life. 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY 


THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

IT  was  now  the  middle  of  September.  We  had  come 
since  sunrise  from  Bartlett,  passing  up  through  the 
valley  of  the  Saco,  which  extends  between  mountainous 
walls,  sometimes  with  a  steep  ascent,  but  often  as  level 
as  a  church-aisle.  All  that  day  and  two  preceding  ones 
we  had  been  loitering  towards  the  heart  of  the  White 
Mountains,  —  those  old  crystal  hills,  whose  mysterious 
brilliancy  had  gleamed  upon  our  distant  wanderings 
before  we  thought  of  visiting  them.  Height  after 
height  had  risen  and  towered  one  above  another  till 
the  clouds  began  to  hang  below  the  peaks.  Down 
their  slopes  were  the  red  pathways  of  the  slides,  thpse 
avalanches  of  earth,  stones,  and  trees,  which  descend 
into  the  hollows,  leaving  vestiges  of  their  track  hardly 
to  be  effaced  by  the  vegetation  of  ages.  We  had  moun- 
tains behind  us  and  mountains  on  each  side,  and  a  group 
of  mightier  ones  ahead.  Still  our  road  went  up  along 
the  Saco,  right  towards  the  centre  of  that  group,  as  if 
to  climb  above  the  clouds  in  its  passage  to  the  farther 
region. 

In  old  times  the  settlers  used  to  be  astounded  by  the 
inroads  of  the  Northern  Indians,  coming  down  upon 
them  from  this  mountain  rampart  through  some  defile 
known  only  to  themselves.  It  is,  indeed,  a  wondrous 
path.  A  demon,  it  might  be  fancied,  or  one  of  the 
Titans,  was  travelling  up  the  valley,  elbowing  the 
heights  carelessly  aside  as  he  passed,  till  at  length  a 
great  mountain  took  its  stand  directly  across  his  in- 
tended road.  He  tarries  not  for  such  an  obstacle,  but, 
rending  it  asunder  a  thousand  feet  from  peak  to  base, 
165  t 


166     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

discloses  its  treasures  of  hidden  minerals,  its  sunless 
waters,  all  the  secrets  of  the  mountain's  inmost  heart, 
with  a  mighty  fracture  of  rugged  precipices  on  each 
side.  This  is  the  Notch  of  the  White  Hills.  Shame 
on  me  that  I  have  attempted  to  describe  it  by  so 
mean  an  image,  feeling,  as  I  do,  that  it  is  one  of 
those  symbolic  scenes  which  lead  the  mind  to  the 
sentiment,  though  not  to  the  conception,  of  Omnipo- 
tence. 

****** 

We  had  now  reached  a  narrow  passage,  which  showed 
almost  the  appearance  of  having  been  cut  by  human 
strength  and  artifice  in  the  solid  rock.  There  was  a 
wall  of  granite  on  each  side,  high  and  precipitous, 
especially  on  our  right,  and  so  smooth  that  a  few  ever- 
greens could  hardly  find  foothold  enough  to  grow  there. 
This  is  the  entrance,  or,  in  the  direction  we  were  going, 
the  extremity,  of  the  romantic  defile  of  the  Notch. 
Before  emerging  from  it,  the  rattling  of  wheels  ap- 
proached behind  us,  and  a  stage-coach  rumbled  out 
of  the  mountain,  with  seats  on  top  and  trunks  behind, 
and  a  smart  driver,  in  a  drab  great-coat,  touching  the 
wheel-horses  with  the  whip-stock  and  reigning  in  the 
leaders.  To  my  mind  there  was  a  sort  of  poetry  in 
such  an  incident,  hardly  inferior  to  what  would  have 
accompanied  the  painted  array  of  an  Indian  war-party 
gliding  forth  from  the  same  wild  chasm.  All  the  pas- 
sengers, except  a  very  fat  lady  on  the  back  seat,  had 
alighted.  One  was  a  mineralogist,  a  scientific,  green- 
spectacled  figure  in  black,  bearing  a  heavy  hammer, 
with  which  he  did  great  damage  to  the  precipices,  and 
put  the  fragments  in  his  pocket.  Another  was  a  well- 
dressed  young  man,  who  carried  an  opera-glass  set  in 
gold,  and  seemed  to  be  making  a  quotation  from  some 
of  Byron's  rhapsodies  on  mountain  scenery.  There  was 
also  a  trader,  returning  from  Portland  to  the  upper  part 
of  Vermont;  and  a  fair  young  girl,  with  a  very  faint 
bloom  like  one  of  those  pale  and  delicate  flowers  which 
sometimes  occur  among  alpine  cliffs. 

They  disappeared,    and   we   followed  them,  passing 


SKETCHES   FROM    MEMORY      167 

through  a  deep  pine  forest,  which  for  some  miles  allowed 
us  to  see  nothing  but  its  own  dismal  shade.  Towards 
nightfall  we  reached  a  level  amphitheatre,  surrounded 
by  a  great  rampart  of  hills,  which  shut  out  the  sunshine 
long  before  it  left  the  external  world.  It  was  here  that 
we  obtained  our  first  view,  except  at  a  distance,  of  the 
principal  group  of  mountains.  They  are  majestic,  and 
even  awful,  when  contemplated  in  a  proper  mood,  yet, 
by  their  breadth  of  base  and  the  long  ridges  which  sup- 
port them,  give  the  idea  of  immense  bulk  rather  than  of 
towering  height.  Mount  Washington,  indeed,  looked 
near  to  Heaven :  he  was  white  with  snow  a  mile  down- 
ward, and  had  caught  the  only  cloud  that  was  sailing 
through  the  atmosphere  to  veil  his  head.  Let  us  forget 
the  other  names  of  American  statesmen  that  have  been 
stamped  upon  these  hills,  but  still  call  the  loftiest  WASH- 
INGTON. Mountains  are  Earth's  undecaying  monuments. 
They  must  stand  while  she  endures,  and  never  should  be 
consecrated  to  the  mere  great  men  of  their  own  age  and 
country,  but  to  the  mighty  ones  alone,  whose  glory  is 
universal,  and  whom  all  time  will  render  illustrious. 

The  air,  not  often  sultry  in  this  elevated  region,  nearly 
two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  was  now  sharp  and  cold, 
like  that  of  a  clear  November  evening  in  the  lowlands. 
By  morning,  probably,  there  would  be  a  frost,  if  not  a 
snowfall,  on  the  grass  and  rye,  and  an  icy  surface  over 
the  standing  water.  I  was  glad  to  perceive  a  prospect 
of  comfortable  quarters  in  a  house  which  we  were  ap- 
proaching, and  of  pleasant  company  in  the  guests  who 
were  assembled  at  the  door. 


OUR    EVENING    PARTY   AMONG   THE    MOUNTAINS 

We  stood  in  front  of  a  gooH  substantial  farm-house, 
of  old  date  in  that  wild  country.  A  sign  over  the  door 
denoted  it  to  be  the  White  Mountain  Post-Office,  —  an 
establishment  which  distributes  letters  and  newspapers 
to  perhaps  a  score  of  persons,  comprising  the  population 
of  two  or  three  townships  among  the  hills.  The  broad 


i68     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

and  weighty  antlers  of  a  deer,  "a  stag  of  ten,"  were 
fastened  at  the  corner  of  the  house ;  a  fox's  bushy  tail 
was  nailed  beneath  them ;  and  a  huge  black  paw  lay  on 
the  ground,  newly  severed  and  still  bleeding,  —  the 
trophy  of  a  bear-hunt.  Among  several  persons  collected 
about  the  doorsteps,  the  most  remarkable  was  a  sturdy 
mountaineer,  of  six  feet  two,  and  corresponding  bulk, 
with  a  heavy  set  of  features,  such  as  might  be  moulded 
on  his  own  blacksmith's  anvil,  but  yet  indicative  of 
mother  wit  and  rough  humor.  As  we  appeared,  he 
uplifted  a  tin  trumpet,  four  or  five  feet  long,  and  blew  a 
tremendous  blast,  either  in  honor  of  our  arrival  or  to 
awaken  an  echo  from  the  opposite  hill. 

Ethan  Crawford's  guests  were  of  such  a  motley  de- 
scription as  to  form  quite  a  picturesque  group,  seldom 
seen  together  except  at  some  place  like  this,  at  once  the 
pleasure-house  of  fashionable  tourists  and  the  homely 
inn  of  country  travellers.  Among  the  company  at  the 
door  were  the  mineralogist  and  the  owner  of  the  gold 
opera-glass  whom  we  had  encountered  in  the  Notch  ;  two 
Georgian  gentlemen,  who  had  chilled  their  Southern 
blood  that  morning  on  the  top  of  Mount  Washington ; 
a  physician  and  his  wife  from  Conway ;  a  trader  of 
Burlington  and  an  old  squire  of  the  Green  Mountains  ; 
and  two  young  married  couples,  all  the  way  from  Mas- 
sachusetts, on  the  matrimonial  jaunt.  Besides  these 
strangers,  the  rugged  county  of  Coos,  in  which  we  were, 
was  represented  by  half  a  dozen  wood-cutters,  who  had 
slain  a  bear  in  the  forest  and  smitten  off  his  paw. 

I  had  joined  the  party,  and  had  a  moment's  leisure  to 
examine  them  before  the  echo  of  Ethan's  blast  returned 
from  the  hill.  Not  one,  but  many  echoes  had  caught 
up  the  harsh  and  tuneless  sound,  untwisted  its  compli- 
cated threads,  and  found  a  thousand  aerial  harmonies  in 
one  stern  trumpet-tone.  It  was  a  distinct  yet  distant 
and  dreamlike  symphony  of  melodious  instruments,  as 
if  an  airy  band  had  been  hidden  on  the  hillside  and 
made  faint  music  at  the  summons.  No  subsequent  trial 
produced  so  clear,  delicate,  and  spiritual  a  concert  as  the 
first.  A  field-piece  was  then  discharged  from  the  top  of 


SKETCHES   FROM    MEMORY      169 

a  neighboring  hill,  and  gave  birth  to  one  long  reverbera- 
tion, which  ran  round  the  circle  of  mountains  in  an 
unbroken  chain  of  sound  and  rolled  away  without  a 
separate  echo.  After  these  experiments,  the  cold  at- 
mosphere drove  us  all  into  the  house,  with  the  keenest 
appetites  for  supper. 

It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  the  great  fires  that  were 
kindled  in  the  parlor  and  bar-room,  especially  the  latter, 
where  the  fireplace  was  built  of  rough  stone,  and  might 
have  contained  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree  for  a  backlog. 
A  man  keeps  a  comfortable  hearth  when  his  own  forest 
is  at  his  very  door.  In  the  parlor,  when  the  evening 
was  fairly  set  in,  we  held  our  hands  before  our  eyes  to 
shield  them  from  the  ruddy  glow,  and  began  a  pleasant 
variety  of  conversation.  The  mineralogist  and  the 
physician  talked  about  the  invigorating  qualities  of  the 
mountain  air,  and  its  excellent  effect  on  Ethan  Craw- 
ford's father,  an  old  man  of  seventy-five,  with  the 
unbroken  frame  of  middle  life.  The  two  brides  and  the 
doctor's  wife  held  a  whispered  discussion,  which,  by 
their  frequent  titterings  and  a  blush  or  two,  seemed  to 
have  reference  to  the  trials  or  enjoyments  of  the  matri- 
monial state.  The  bridegrooms  sat  together  in  a  corner, 
rigidly  silent,  like  Quakers  whom  the  spirit  moveth  not, 
being  still  in  the  odd  predicament  of  bashfulness  towards 
their  own  young  wives.  The  Green  Mountain  squire 
chose  me  for  his  companion,  and  described  the  difficulties 
he  had  met  with  half  a  century  ago  in  travelling  from  the 
Connecticut  River  through  the  Notch  to  Conway,  now  a 
single  day's  journey,  though  it  had  cost  him  eighteen. 
The  Georgians  held  the  album  between  them,  and 
favored  us  with  the  few  specimens  of  its  contents,  which 
they  considered  ridiculous  enough  to  be  worth  hearing. 
One  extract  met  with  deserved  applause.  It  was  a 
"  Sonnet  to  the  Snow  on  Mount  Washington,"  and  had 
been  contributed  that  very  afternoon,  bearing  a  signature 
of  great  distinction  in  magazines  and  annuals.  The 
lines  were  elegant  and  full  of  fancy,  but  too  remote  from 
familiar  sentiment,  and  cold  as  their  subject,  resembling 
those  curious  specimens  of  crystallized  vapor  which  I 


170     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

observed  next  day  on  the  mountain-top.  The  poet  was 
understood  to  be  the  young  gentleman  of  the  gold  opera- 
glass,  who  heard  our  laudatory  remarks  with  the  com- 
posure of  a  veteran. 

Such  was  our  party,  and  such  their  ways  of  amuse- 
ment. But  on  a  winter  evening  another  set  of  guests 
assembled  at  the  hearth  where  these  summer  travellers 
were  now  sitting.  I  once  had  it  in  contemplation  to 
spend  a  month  hereabouts,  in  sleighing-time,  for  the 
sake  of  studying  the  yeomen  of  New  England,  who  then 
elbow  each  other  through  the  Notch  by  hundreds,  on 
their  way  to  Portland.  There  could  be  no  better  school 
for  such  a  purpose  than  Ethan  Crawford's  inn.  Let  the 
student  go  thither  in  December,  sit  down  with  the  team- 
sters at  their  meals,  share  their  evening  merriment,  and 
repose  with  them  at  night,  when  every  bed  has  its  three 
occupants  and  parlor,  bar-room,  and  kitchen  are  strewn 
with  slumberers  around  the  fire.  Then  let  him  rise  be- 
fore daylight,  button  his  great-coat,  muffle  up  his  ears, 
and  stride  with  the  departing  caravan  a  mile  or  two,  to 
see  how  sturdily  they  make  head  against  the  blast.  A 
treasure  of  characteristic  traits  will  repay  all  incon- 
veniences, even  should  a  frozen  nose  be  of  the  number. 

The  conversation  of  our  party  soon  became  more  ani- 
mated and  sincere,  and  we  recounted  some  traditions  of 
the  Indians,  who  believed  that  the  father  and  mother  of 
their  race  were  saved  from  a  deluge  by  ascending  the 
peak  of  Mount  Washington.  The  children  of  that  pair 
have  been  overwhelmed,  and  found  no  such  refuge.  In 
the  mythology  of  the  savage,  these  mountains  were  after- 
wards considered  sacred  and  inaccessible,  full  of  un- 
earthly wonders,  illuminated  at  lofty  heights  by  the  blaze 
of  precious  stones,  and  inhabited  by  deities,  who  some- 
times shrouded  themselves  in  the  snow-storm  and  came 
down  on  the  lower  world.  There  are  few  legends  more 
poetical  than  that  of  the  "  Great  Carbuncle  "  of  the  White 
Mountains.  The  belief  was  communicated  to  the  Eng- 
lish settlers,  and  is  hardly  yet  extinct,  that  a  gem,  of 
such  immense  size  as  to  be  seen  shining  miles  away, 
hangs  from  a  rock  over  a  clear,  deep  lake,  high  up  among 


SKETCHES    FROM    MEMORY       171 

the  hills.  They  who  had  once  beheld  its  splendor  were 
enthralled  with  an  unutterable  yearning  to  possess  it. 
But  a  spirit  guarded  that  inestimable  jewel,  and  bewil- 
dered the  adventurer  with  a  dark  mist  from  the  enchanted 
lake.  Thus  life  was  worn  away  in  the  vain  search  for 
an  unearthly  treasure,  till  at  length  the  deluded  one  went 
up  the  mountain,  still  sanguine  as  in  youth,  but  returned 
no  more.  On  this  theme  methinks  I  could  frame  a  tale 
with  a  deep  moral. 

The  hearts  of  the  palefaces  would  not  thrill  to  these 
superstitions  of  the  red  men,  though  we  spoke  of  them 
in  the  centre  of  their  haunted  region.  The  habits  and 
sentiments  of  that  departed  people  were  too  distinct  from 
those  of  their  successors  to  find  much  real  sympathy.  It 
has  often  been  a  matter  of  regret  to  me  that  I  was  shut 
out  from  the  most  peculiar  field  of  American  fiction  by 
an  inability  to  see  any  romance,  or  poetry,  or  grandeur, 
or  beauty  in  the  Indian  character,  at  least  till  such  traits 
were  pointed  out  by  others.  I  do  abhor  an  Indian  story. 
Yet  no  writer  can  be  more  secure  of  a  permanent  place 
in  our  literature  than  the  biographer  of  the  Indian  chiefs. 
His  subject,  as  referring  to  tribes  which  have  mostly 
vanished  from  the  earth,  gives  him  a  right  to  be  placed 
on  a  classic  shelf,  apart  from  the  merits  which  will  sus- 
tain him  there. 

I  made  inquiries  whether,  in  his  researches  about 
these  parts,  our  mineralogist  had  found  the  three  "  Sil- 
ver Hills  "  which  an  Indian  sachem  sold  to  an  English- 
man nearly  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  the  treasure  of 
which  the  posterity  of  the  purchaser  have  been  looking 
for  ever  since.  But  the  man  of  science  had  ransacked 
every  hill  along  the  Saco,  and  knew  nothing  of  these 
prodigious  piles  of  wealth.  By  this  time,  as  usual  with 
men  on  the  eve  of  great  adventure,  we  had  prolonged 
our  session  deep  into  the  night,  considering  how  early 
we  were  to  set  out  on  our  six  miles'  ride  to  the  foot  of 
Mount  Washington.  There  was  now  a  general  breaking 
up.  .1  scrutinized  the  faces  of  the  two  bridegrooms,  and 
saw  but  little  probability  of  their  leaving  the  bosom  of 
earthly  bliss,  in  the  first  week  of  the  honeymoon  and  at 


172     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  frosty  hour  of  three,  to  climb  above  the  clouds  ;  nor, 
when  I  felt  how  sharp  the  wind  was  as  it  rushed  through 
a  broken  pane  and  eddied  between  the  chinks  of  my 
unplastered  chamber,  did  I  anticipate  much  alacrity  on 
my  own  part,  though  we  were  to  seek  for  the  "Great 
Carbuncle." 


THE    CANAL-BOAT 

I  was  inclined  to  be  poetical  about  the  Grand  Canal. 
In  my  imagination  De  Witt  Clinton  was  an  enchanter, 
who  had  waved  his  magic  wand  from  the  Hudson  to 
Lake  Erie  and  united  them  by  a  watery  highway, 
crowded  with  the  commerce  of  two  worlds,  till  then  in- 
accessible to  each  other.  This  simple  and  mighty  con- 
ception had  conferred  inestimable  value  on  spots  which 
Nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  carelessly  into  the  great 
body  of  the  earth,  without  foreseeing  that  they  could 
ever  attain  importance.  I  pictured  the  surprise  of  the 
sleepy  Dutchmen  when  the  new  river  first  glittered  by 
their  doors,  bringing  them  hard  cash  or  foreign  com- 
modities in  exchange  for  their  hitherto  unmarketable 
produce.  Surely  the  water  of  this  canal  must  be  the 
most  fertilizing  of  all  fluids ;  for  it  causes  towns,  with 
their  masses  of  brick  and  stone,  their  churches  and 
theatres,  their  business  and  hubbub,  their  luxury  and 
refinement,  their  gay  dames  and  polished  citizens,  to 
spring  up,  till  in  time  the  wondrous  stream  may  flow 
between  two  continuous  lines  of  buildings,  through  one 
thronged  street,  from  Buffalo  to  Albany.  I  embarked 
about  thirty  miles  below  Utica,  determining  to  voyage 
along  the  whole  extent  of  the  canal  at  least  twice  in  the 
course  of  the  summer. 

Behold  us,  then,  fairly  afloat,  with  three  horses  har- 
nessed to  our  vessel,  like  the  steeds  of  Neptune  to  a 
huge  scallop-shell  in  mythological  pictures.  Bound  to 
a  distant  port,  we  had  neither  chart  nor  compass,  nor 
cared  about  the  wind,  nor  felt  the  heaving  of  a  billow, 
nor  dreaded  shipwreck,  however  fierce  the  tempest,  in 


SKETCHES    FROM    MEMORY       173 

our  adventurous  navigation  of  an  interminable  mud- 
puddle  ;  for  a  mud-puddle  it  seemed,  and  as  dark  and 
turbid  as  if  every  kennel  in  the  land  paid  contribution 
to  it.  With  an  imperceptible  current,  it  holds  its  drowsy 
way  through  all  the  dismal  swamps  and  unimpressive 
scenery  that  could  be  found  between  the  great  lakes 
and  the  sea-coast.  Yet  there  is  variety  enough,  both  on 
the  surface  of  the  canal  and  along  its  banks,  to  amuse 
the  traveller,  if  an  overpowering  tedium  did  not  deaden 
his  perceptions. 

Sometimes  we  met  a  black  and  rusty-looking  vessel, 
laden  with  lumber,  salt  from  Syracuse,  or  Genesee  flour, 
and  shaped  at  both  ends  like  a  square-toed  boot,  as  if  it 
had  two  sterns,  and  were  fated  always  to  advance  back- 
ward. On  its  deck  would  be  a  square  hut,  and  a  woman 
seen  through  the  window  at  her  household  work,  with  a 
little  tribe  of  children  who  perhaps  had  been  born  in  this 
strange  dwelling  and  knew  no  other  home.  Thus,  while 
the  husband  smoked  his  pipe  at  the  helm  and  the  eldest 
son  rode  one  of  the  horses,  on  went  the  family,  travelling 
hundreds  of  miles  in  their  own  house  and  carrying  their 
fireside  with  them.  The  most  frequent  species  of  craft 
were  the  "  line-boats,"  which  had  a  cabin  at  each  end, 
and  a  great  bulk  of  barrels,  bales,  and  boxes  in  the  midst, 
or  light  packets  like  our  own  decked  all  over  with  a  row 
of  curtained  windows  from  stem  to  stern,  and  a  drowsy 
face  at  every  one.  Once  we  encountered  a  boat  of  rude 
construction,  painted  all  in  gloomy  black,  and  manned  by 
three  Indians,  who  gazed  at  us  in  silence  and  with  a  sin- 
gular fixedness  of  eye.  Perhaps  these  three  alone,  among 
the  ancient  possessors  of  the  land,  had  attempted  to  de- 
rive benefit  from  the  white  man's  mighty  projects  and 
float  along  the  current  of  his  enterprise.  Not  long  after, 
in  the  midst  of  a  swamp  and  beneath  a  clouded  sky,  we 
overtook  a  vessel  that  seemed  full  of  mirth  and  sunshine. 
It  contained  a  little  colony  of  Swiss  on  their  way  to 
Michigan,  clad  in  garments  of  strange  fashion  and  gay 
colors,  scarlet,  yellow,  and  bright  blue,  singing,  laughing, 
and  making  merry  in  odd  tones  and  a  babble  of  outland- 
ish words.  One  pretty  damsel,  with  a  beautiful  pair  of 


174     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

naked  white  arms,  addressed  a  mirthful  remark  to  me. 
She  spoke  in  her  native  tongue,  and  I  retorted  in  good 
English,  both  of  us  laughing  heartily  at  each  other's  un- 
intelligible wit.  I  cannot  describe  how  pleasantly  this 
incident  affected  me.  These  honest  Swiss  were  an  itin- 
erant community  of  jest  and  fun  journeying  through  a 
gloomy  land  and  among  a  dull  race  of  money-getting 
drudges,  meeting  none  to  understand  their  mirth,  and 
only  one  to  sympathize  with  it,  yet  still  retaining  the 
happy  lightness  of  their  own  spirit. 

Had  I  been  on  my  feet  at  the  time  instead  of  sailing 
slowly  along  in  a  dirty  canal-boat,  I  should  often  have 
paused  to  contemplate  the  diversified  panorama  along  the 
banks  of  the  canal.  Sometimes  the  scene  was  a  forest, 
dark,  dense,  and  impervious,  breaking  away  occasionally 
and  receding  from  a  lonely  tract,  covered  with  dismal 
black  stumps,  where,  on  the  verge  of  the  canal,  might 
be  seen  a  log-cottage  and  a  sallow-faced  woman  at  the 
window.  Lean  and  aguish,  she  looked  like  poverty 
personified,  half  clothed,  half  fed,  and  dwelling  in  a  des- 
ert, while  a  tide  of  wealth  was  sweeping  by  her  door. 
Two  or  three  miles  farther  would  bring  us  to  a  lock, 
where  the  slight  impediment  to  navigation  had  created 
a  little  mart  of  trade.  Here  would  be  found  commodi- 
ties of  all  sorts,  enumerated  in  yellow  letters  on  the 
window-shutters  of  a  small  grocery-store,  the  owner  of 
which  had  set  his  soul  to  the  gathering  of  coppers  and 
small  change,  buying  and  selling  through  the  week,  and 
counting  his  gains  on  the  blessed  Sabbath.  The  next 
scene  might  be  the  dwelling-houses  and  stores  of  a 
thriving  village,  built  of  wood  or  small  gray  stones,  a 
church-spire  rising  in  the  midst,  and  generally  two  tav- 
erns, bearing  over  their  piazzas  the  pompous  titles  of 
"hotel,"  "exchange,"  "tontine,"  or  "coffee-house." 
Passing  on,  we  glide  now  into  the  unquiet  heart  of  an 
inland  city,  —  of  Utica,  for  instance,  —  and  find  ourselves 
amid  piles  of  brick,  crowded  docks  and  quays,  rich 
warehouses,  and  a  busy  population.  We  feel  the  eager 
and  hurrying  spirit  of  the  place,  like  a  stream  and  eddy 
whirling  us  along  with  it.  Through  the  thickest  of  the 


SKETCHES   FROM    MEMORY       175 

tumult  goes  the  canal,  flowing  between  lofty  rows  of 
buildings  and  arched  bridges  of  hewn  stone.  Onward, 
also,  go  we,  till  the  hum  and  bustle  of  struggling  enter- 
prise die  away  behind  us  and  we  are  threading  an  avenue 
of  the  ancient  woods  again. 

This  sounds  not  amiss  in  description,  but  was  so  tire- 
some in  reality  that  we  were  driven  to  the  most  childish 
expedients  for  amusement.  An  English  traveller  paraded 
the  deck,  with  a  rifle  in  his  walking-stick,  and  waged 
war  on  squirrels  and  woodpeckers,  sometimes  sending 
an  unsuccessful  bullet  among  flocks  of  tame  ducks  and 
geese  which  abound  in  the  dirty  water  of  the  canal.  I, 
also,  pelted  these  foolish  birds  with  apples,  and  smiled 
at  the  ridiculous  earnestness  of  their  scrambles  for  the 
prize  while  the  apple  bobbed  about  like  a  thing  of  life. 
Several  little  accidents  afforded  us  good-natured  diver- 
sion. At  the  moment  of  changing  horses  the  tow-rope 
caught  a  Massachusetts  farmer  by  the  leg  and  threw  him 
down  in  a  very  indescribable  posture,  leaving  a  purple 
mark  around  his  sturdy  limb.  A  new  passenger  fell  flat 
on  his  back  in  attempting  to  step  on  deck  as  the  boat 
emerged  from  under  a  bridge.  Another,  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  being  told  to  leap 
aboard  from  the  bank,  forthwith  plunged  up  to  his  third 
waistcoat-button  in  the  canal,  and  was  fished  out  in  a 
very  pitiable  plight,  not  at  all  amended  by  our  three 
rounds  of  applause.  Anon  a  Virginia  schoolmaster,  too 
intent  on  a  pocket  Virgil  to  heed  the  helmsman's  warn- 
ing, "  Bridge  !  bridge  !  "  was  saluted  by  the  said  bridge 
on  his  knowledge-box.  I  had  prostrated  myself  like  a 
pagan  before  his  idol,  but  heard  the  dull,  leaden  sound 
of  the  contact,  and  fully  expected  to  see  the  treasures  of 
the  poor  man's  cranium  scattered  about  the  deck.  How- 
ever, as  there  was  no  harm  done,  except  a  large  bump 
on  the  head,  and  probably  a  corresponding  dent  in  the 
bridge,  the  rest  of  us  exchanged  glances  and  laughed 
quietly.  Oh,  how  pitiless  are  idle  people ! 

****** 

The  table  being  now  lengthened  through  the  cabin 
and  spread  for  supper,  the  next  twenty  minutes  were 


176     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

the  pleasantest  I  had  spent  on  the  canal,  the  same  space 
at  dinner  excepted.  At  the  close  of  the  meal  it  had 
become  dusky  enough  for  lamplight.  The  rain  pattered 
unceasingly  on  the  deck,  and  sometimes  came  with  a 
sullen  rush  against  the  windows,  driven  by  the  wind  as 
it  stirred  through  an  opening  of  the  forest.  The  intol- 
erable dulness  of  the  scene  engendered  an  evil  spirit  in 
me.  Perceiving  that  the  Englishman  was  taking  notes 
in  a  memorandum-book,  with  occasional  glances  round 
the  cabin,  I  presumed  that  we  were  all  to  figure  in  a 
future  volume  of  travels,  and  amused  my  ill-humor  by 
falling  into  the  probable  vein  of  his  remarks.  He  would 
hold  up  an  imaginary  mirror,  wherein  our  reflected  faces 
would  appear  ugly  and  ridiculous,  yet  still  retain  an 
undeniable  likeness  to  the  originals.  Then,  with  more 
sweeping  malice,  he  would  make  these  caricatures  the 
representatives  of  great  classes  of  my  countrymen. 

He  glanced  at  the  Virginia  schoolmaster,  a  Yankee 
by  birth,  who,  to  recreate  himself,  was  examining  a 
freshman  from  Schenectady  College  in  the  conjugation 
of  a  Greek  verb.  Him  the  Englishman  would  portray 
as  the  scholar  of  America,  and  compare  his  erudition  to 
a  schoolboy's  Latin  theme  made  up  of  scraps  ill-selected 
and  worse  put  together.  Next  the  tourist  looked  at  the 
Massachusetts  farmer,  who  was  delivering  a  dogmatic 
harangue  on  the  iniquity  of  Sunday  mails.  Here  was 
the  far-famed  yeoman  of  New  England ;  his  religion, 
writes  the  Englishman,  is  gloom  on  the  Sabbath,  long 
prayers  every  morning  and  eventide,  and  illiberality  at 
all  times ;  his  boasted  information  is  merely  an  abstract 
and  compound  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  Congress  de- 
bates, caucus  harangues,  and  the  argument  and  judge's 
charge  in  his  own  lawsuits.  The  book-monger  cast  his 
eye  at  a  Detroit  merchant,  and  began  scribbling  faster 
than  ever.  In  this  sharp-eyed  man,  this  lean  man,  of 
wrinkled  brow,  we  see  daring  enterprise  and  close-fisted 
avarice  combined.  Here  is  the  worshipper  of  Mammon 
at  noonday ;  here  is  the  three  times  bankrupt,  richer 
after  every  ruin  ;  here,  in  one  word,  (O  wicked  English- 
man to  say  it!)  here  is  the  American.  He  lifted  his 


SKETCHES   FROM    MEMORY      177 

eye-glass  to  inspect  a  Western  lady,  who  at  once  be- 
came aware  of  the  glance,  reddened,  and  retired  deeper 
into  the  female  part  of  the  cabin.  Here  was  the  pure, 
modest,  sensitive,  and  shrinking  woman  of  America, — 
shrinking  when  no  evil  is  intended,  and  sensitive  like 
diseased  flesh,  that  thrills  if  you  but  point  at  it;  and 
strangely  modest,  without  confidence  in  the  modesty  of 
other  people ;  and  admirably  pure,  with  such  a  quick 
apprehension  of  all  impurity. 

In  this  manner  I  went  all  through  the  cabin,  hitting 
everybody  as  hard  a  lash  as  I  could,  and  laying  the 
whole  blame  on  the  infernal  Englishman.  At  length  I 
caught  the  eyes  of  my  own  image  in  the  looking-glass, 
where  a  number  of  the  party  were  likewise  reflected, 
and  among  them  the  Englishman,  who  at  that  moment 
was  intently  observing  myself. 

****** 

The  crimson  curtain  being  let  down  between  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  cabin  became  a  bedchamber 
for  twenty  persons,  who  were  laid  on  shelves  one  above 
another.  For  a  long  time  our  various  incommodities 
kept  us  all  awake  except  five  or  six,  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  sleep  nightly  amid  the  uproar  of  their  own 
snoring,  and  had  little  to  dread  from  any  other  species 
of  disturbance.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  these  snorers 
had  been  the  most  quiet  people  in  the  boat  while  awake, 
and  became  peace-breakers  only  when  others  cease  to 
be  so,  breathing  tumult  out  of  their  repose.  Would  it 
were  possible  to  affix  a  wind-instrument  to  the  nose, 
and  thus  make  melody  of  a  snore,  so  that  a  sleeping 
lover  might  serenade  his  mistress  or  a  congregation 
snore  a  psalm-tune!  Other,  though  fainter,  sounds 
than  these  contributed  to  my  restlessness.  My  head 
was  close  to  the  crimson  curtain, — the  sexual  division 
of  the  boat,  —  behind  which  I  continually  heard  whis- 
pers and  stealthy  footsteps ;  the  noise  of  a  comb  laid  on 
the  table  or  a  slipper  dropped  on  the  floor ;  the  twang, 
like  a  broken  harp-string,  caused  by  loosening  a  tight 
belt ;  the  rustling  of  a  gown  in  its  descent ;  and  the  un- 
lacing of  a  pair  of  stays.  My  ear  seemed  to  have  the 


178     MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

properties  of  an  eye ;  a  visible  image  pestered  my  fancy 
in  the  darkness ;  the  curtain  was  withdrawn  between 
me  and  the  Western  lady,  who  yet  disrobed  herself 
without  a  blush. 

Finally  all  was  hushed  in  that  quarter.  Still  I  was 
more  broad  awake  than  through  the  whole  preceding 
day,  and  felt  a  feverish  impulse  to  toss  my  limbs  miles 
apart  and  appease  the  unquietness  of  mind  by  that  of 
matter.  Forgetting  that  my  berth  was  hardly  so  wide 
as  a  coffin,  I  turned  suddenly  over  and  fell  like  an  ava- 
lanche on  the  floor,  to  the  disturbance  of  the  whole 
community  of  sleepers.  As  there  were  no  bones  broken, 
I  blessed  the  accident  and  went  on  deck.  A  lantern 
was  burning  at  each  end  of  the  boat,  and  one  of  the 
crew  was  stationed  at  the  bows,  keeping  watch,  as  mari- 
ners do  on  the  ocean.  Though  the  rain  had  ceased,  the 
sky  was  all  one  cloud,  and  the  darkness  so  intense  that 
there  seemed  to  be  no  world  except  the  little  space  on 
which  our  lanterns  glimmered.  Yet  it  was  an  impres- 
sive scene. 

We  were  traversing  the  "  long  level,"  a  dead  flat  be- 
tween Utica  and  Syracuse,  where  the  canal  has  not  rise 
or  fall  enough  to  require  a  lock  for  nearly  seventy  miles. 
There  can  hardly  be  a  more  dismal  tract  of  country. 
The  forest  which  covers  it,  consisting  chiefly  of  white- 
cedar,  black-ash,  and  other  trees  that  live  in  excessive 
moisture,  is  now  decayed  and  death-struck  by  the  par- 
tial draining  of  the  swamp  into  the  great  ditch  of  the 
canal.  Sometimes,  indeed,  our  lights  were  reflected 
from  pools  of  stagnant  water  which  stretched  far  in 
among  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  beneath  dense  masses  of 
dark  foliage.  But  generally  the  tall  stems  and  inter- 
mingled branches  were  naked,  and  brought  into  strong 
relief  amid  the  surrounding  gloom  by  the  whiteness  of 
their  decay.  Often  we  beheld  the  prostrate  form  of 
some  old  sylvan  giant  which  had  fallen  and  crushed 
down  smaller  trees  under  its  immense  ruin.  In  spots 
where  destruction  had  been  riotous,  the  lanterns  showed 
perhaps  a  hundred  trunks,  erect,  half  overthrown,  ex- 
tended along  the  ground,  resting  on  their  shattered 


SKETCHES   FROM    MEMORY      179 

limbs  or  tossing  them  desperately  into  the  darkness, 
but  all  of  one  ashy  white,  all  naked  together,  in  desolate 
confusion.  Thus  growing  out  of  the  night  as  we  drew 
nigh,  and  vanishing  as  we  glided  on,  based  on  obscurity, 
and  overhung  and  bounded  by  it,  the  scene  was  ghost- 
like,—  the  very  land  of  unsubstantial  things,  whither 
dreams  might  betake  themselves  when  they  quit  the 
slurnberer's  brain. 

My  fancy  found  another  emblem.  The  wild  nature 
of  America  had  been  driven  to  this  desert-place  by  the 
encroachments  of  civilized  man.  And  even  here,  where 
the  savage  queen  was  throned  on  the  ruins  of  her  em- 
pire, did  we  penetrate,  a  vulgar  and  worldly  throng, 
intruding  on  her  latest  solitude.  In  other  lands  decay 
sits  among  fallen  palaces ;  but  here  her  home  is  in  the 
forests. 

Looking  ahead,  I  discerned  a  distant  light,  announc- 
ing the  approach  of  another  boat,  which  soon  passed 
us,  and  proved  to  be  a  rusty  old  scow,  —  just  such  a 
craft  as  the  "  Flying  Dutchman  "  would  navigate  on  the 
canal.  Perhaps  it  was  that  celebrated  personage  him- 
self whom  I  imperfectly  distinguished  at  the  helm  in  a 
glazed  cap  and  rough  great-coat,  with  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  leaving  the  fumes  of  tobacco  a  hundred  yards 
behind.  Shortly  after  our  boatman  blew  a  horn,  send- 
ing a  long  and  melancholy  note  through  the  forest  ave- 
nue, as  a  signal  for  some  watcher  in  the  wilderness  to 
be  ready  with  a  change  of  horses.  We  had  proceeded 
a  mile  or  two  with  our  fresh  team  when  the  tow-rope 
got  entangled  in  a  fallen  branch  on  the  edge  of  the 
canal,  and  caused  a  momentary  delay,  during  which  I 
went  to  examine  the  phosphoric  light  of  an  old  tree  a 
little  within  the  forest.  It  was  not  the  first  delusive 
radiance  that  I  had  followed. 

The  tree  lay  along  the  ground,  and  was  wholly  con- 
verted into  a  mass  of  diseased  splendor,  which  threw  a 
ghastliness  around.  Being  full  of  conceits  that  night,  I 
called  it  a  frigid  fire,  a  funeral  light,  illumining  decay 
and  death,  an  emblem  of  fame  that  gleams  around  the 
dead  man  without  warming  him,  or  of  genius  when  if 


i8o     MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

owes  its  brilliancy  to  moral  rottenness,  and  was  thinking 
that  such  ghostlike  torches  were  just  fit  to  light  up  this 
dead  forest  or  to  blaze  coldly  in  tombs,  when,  starting 
from  my  abstraction,  I  looked  up  the  canal.  I  recol- 
lected myself,  and  discovered  the  lanterns  glimmering 
far  away. 

"  Boat  ahoy ! "  shouted  I,  making  a  trumpet  of  my 
closed  fists. 

Though  the  cry  must  have  rung  for  miles  along  that 
hollow  passage  of  the  woods,  it  produced  no  effect. 
These  packet-boats  make  up  for  their  snail-like  pace  by 
never  loitering  day  nor  night,  especially  for  those  who 
have  paid  their  fare.  Indeed,  the  captain  had  an  inter- 
est in  getting  rid  of  me ;  for  I  was  his  creditor  for  a 
breakfast. 

"They  are  gone,  Heaven  be  praised!  "  ejaculated  I ; 
"  for  I  cannot  possibly  overtake  them.  Here  am  I,  on 
the  '  long  level,'  at  midnight,  with  the  comfortable  pros- 
pect of  a  walk  to  Syracuse,  where  my  baggage  will  be 
left.  And  now  to  find  a  house  or  shed  wherein  to  pass 
the  night."  So  thinking  aloud,  I  took  a  flambeau  from 
the  old  tree,  burning,  but  consuming  not,  to  light  my 
steps  withal,  and,  like  a  jack-o'-the-lantern,  set  out  on 
my  midnight  tour. 


THE  OLD   APPLE-DEALER 

THE  lover  of  the  moral  picturesque  may  sometimes 
find  what  he  seeks  in  a  character,  which  is,  never- 
theless, of  too  negative  a  description  to  be  seized  upon, 
and  represented  to  the  imaginative  vision  by  word-paint- 
ing. As  an  instance,  I  remember  an  old  man  who 
carries  on  a  little  trade  of  gingerbread  and  apples,  at 
the  depot  of  one  of  our  railroads.  While  awaiting  the 
departure  of  the  cars,  my  observation,  flitting  to  and 
fro  among  the  livelier  characteristics  of  the  scene,  has 
often  settled  insensibly  upon  this  almost  hueless  object. 
Thus,  unconsciously  to  myself,  and  unsuspected  by  him, 
I  have  studied  the  old  apple-dealer,  until  he  has  become 
a  naturalized  citizen  of  my  inner  world.  How  little 
would  he  imagine  —  poor,  neglected,  friendless,  unap- 
preciated, and  with  little  that  demands  appreciation  — 
that  the  mental  eye  of  an  utter  stranger  has  so  often 
reverted  to  his  figure  !  Many  a  noble  form  —  many  a 
beautiful  face  —  has  flitted  before  me,  and  vanished  like 
a  shadow.  It  is  a  strange  witchcraft,  whereby  this  faded 
and  featureless  old  apple-dealer  has  gained  a  settlement 
in  my  memory  ! 

He  is  a  small  man,  with  gray  hair  and  gray  stubble- 
beard,  and  is  invariably  clad  in  a  shabby  surtout  of  snuff- 
color,  closely  buttoned,  and  half-concealing  a  pair  of 
gray  pantaloons ;  the  whole  dress,  though  clean  and 
entire,  being  evidently  flimsy  with  much  wear.  His 
face,  thin,  withered,  furrowed,  and  with  features  which 
even  age  has  failed  to  render  impressive,  has  a  frost- 
bitten aspect.  It  is  a  moral  frost,  which  no  physical 
warmth  or  comfortableness  could  counteract.  The  sum- 
mer sunshine  may  fling  its  white  heat  upon  him,  or  the 
good  fire  of  the  depot-room  may  make  him  the  focus 
of  its  blaze,  on  a  winter's  day ;  but  all  in  vain ;  for  still 
181  t 


i82    MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

the  old  man  looks  as  if  he  were  in  a  frosty  atmosphere, 
with  scarcely  warmth  enough  to  keep  life  in  the  region 
about  his  heart.  It  is  a  patient,  long-suffering,  quiet, 
hopeless,  shivering  aspect.  He  is  not  desperate  —  that, 
though  its  etymology  implies  no  more,  would  be  too 
positive  an  expression  —  but  merely  devoid  of  hope.  As 
all  his  past  life,  probably,  offers  no  spots  of  brightness 
to  his  memory,  so  he  takes  his  present  poverty  and  dis- 
comfort as  entirely  a  matter  of  course ;  he  thinks  it  the 
definition  of  existence,  so  far  as  himself  is  concerned, 
to  be  poor,  cold,  and  uncomfortable.  It  may  be  added, 
that  time  has  not  thrown  dignity,  as  a  mantle,  over  the 
old  man's  figure  ;  there  is  nothing  venerable  about  him ; 
you  pity  him  without  a  scruple. 

He  sits  on  a  bench  in  the  depot-room  ;  and  before 
him,  on  the  floor,  are  deposited  two  baskets,  of  a 
capacity  to  contain  his  whole  stock  in  trade.  Across, 
from  one  basket  to  the  other,  extends  a  board,  on 
which  is  displayed  a  plate  of  cakes  and  gingerbread, 
some  russet  and  red  cheeked  apples,  and  a  box  con- 
taining variegated  sticks  of  candy ;  together  with  that 
delectable  condiment,  known  by  children  as  Gibraltar 
rock,  neatly  done  up  in  white  paper.  There  is  like- 
wise a  half-peck  measure  of  cracked  walnuts,  and  two 
or  three  tin  half-pints  or  gills,  filled  with  the  nut 
kernels  ready  for  purchasers.  Such  are  the  small 
commodities  with  which  our  old  friend  comes  daily 
before  the  world,  ministering  to  its  petty  needs  and 
little  freaks  of  appetite,  and  seeking  thence  the  solid 
subsistence  —  so  far  as  he  may  subsist  —  of  his 
life. 

A  slight  observer  would  speak  of  the  old  man's  quie- 
tude. But,  on  closer  scrutiny,  you  discover  that  there 
is  a  continual  unrest  within  him,  which  somewhat  re- 
sembles the  fluttering  action  of  the  nerves,  in  a  corpse 
from  which  life  has  recently  departed.  Though  he 
never  exhibits  any  violent  action,  and,  indeed,  might 
appear  to  be  sitting  quite  still,  yet  you  perceive,  when 
his  minuter  peculiarities  begin  to  be  detected,  that  he 
is  always  making  some  little  movement  or  other.  He 


THE   OLD   APPLE-DEALER        183 

looks  anxiously  at  his  plate  of  cakes,  or  pyramid  of 
apples,  and  slightly  alters  their  arrangement,  with  an 
evident  idea  that  a  great  deal  depends  on  their  being 
disposed  exactly  thus  and  so.  Then,  for  a  moment, 
he  gazes  out  of  the  window ;  then  he  shivers,  quietly, 
and  folds  his  arms  across  his  breast,  as  if  to  draw  him- 
self closer  within  himself,  and  thus  keep  a  flicker  of 
warmth  in  his  lonesome  heart.  Now  he  turns  again 
to  his  merchandise  of  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  and 
discovers  that  this  cake  or  that  apple,  or  yonder  stick 
of  red  and  white  candy,  has,  somehow,  got  out  of  its 
proper  position.  And  is  there  not  a  walnut-kernel 
too  many,  or  too  few,  in  one  of  those  small  tin  meas- 
ures ?  Again,  the  whole  arrangement  appears  to  be 
settled  to  his  mind ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  minute  or 
two,  there  will  assuredly  be  something  to  set  right. 
At  times,  by  an  indescribable  shadow  upon  his  fea- 
tures —  too  quiet,  however,  to  be  noticed,  until  you  are 
familiar  with  his  ordinary  aspect  —  the  expression  of 
frost-bitten,  patient  despondency  becomes  very  touch- 
ing. It  seems  as  if,  just  at  that  instant,  the  suspicion 
occurred  to  him,  that,  in  his  chill  decline  of  life,  earning 
scanty  bread  by  selling  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  he  is  a 
very  miserable  old  fellow. 

But,  if  he  think  so,  it  is  a  mistake.  He  can  never 
suffer  the  extreme  of  misery,  because  the  tone  of  his 
whole  being  is  too  much  subdued  for  him  to  feel  any- 
thing acutely. 

Occasionally,  one  of  the  passengers,  to  while  away 
a  tedious  interval,  approaches  the  old  man,  inspects 
the  articles  upon  his  board,  and  even  peeps  curiously 
into  the  two  baskets.  Another,  striding  to  and  fro 
along  the  room,  throws  a  look  at  the  apples  and  gin- 
gerbread, at  every  turn.  A  third,  it  may  be,  of  a  more 
sensitive  and  delicate  texture  of  being,  glances  shyly 
thitherward,  cautious  not  to  excite  expectations  of  a 
purchaser,  while  yet  undetermined  whether  to  buy. 
But  there  appears  to  be  no  need  of  such  a  scrupulous 
regard  to  our  old  friend's  feelings.  True,  he  is  con- 
scious of  the  remote  possibility  of  selling  a  cake  or  an 


1 84    MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

apple,  but  innumerable  disappointments  have  rendered 
him  so  far  a  philosopher,  that,  even  if  the  purchased 
article  should  be  returned,  he  will  consider  it  alto- 
gether in  the  ordinary  train  of  events.  He  speaks  to 
none  and  makes  no  sign  of  offering  his  wares  to  the 
public  ;  not  that  he  is  deterred  by  pride,  but  by  the 
certain  conviction  that  such  demonstrations  would  not 
increase  his  custom.  Besides,  this  activity  in  busi- 
ness would  require  an  energy  that  never  could  have 
been  a  characteristic  of  his  almost  passive  disposition, 
even  in  youth.  Whenever  an  actual  customer  appears, 
the  old  man  looks  up  with  a  patient  eye ;  if  the  price 
and  the  article  are  approved,  he  is  ready  to  make 
change ;  otherwise,  his  eyelids  droop  again,  sadly 
enough,  but  with  no  heavier  despondency  than  before. 
He  shivers,  perhaps,  folds  his  lean  arms  around  his 
lean  body,  and  resumes  the  life-long,  frozen  patience, 
in  which  consists  his  strength.  Once  in  a  while,  a 
schoolboy  comes  hastily  up,  places  a  cent  or  two  upon 
the  board,  and  takes  up  a  cake  or  stick  of  candy,  or 
a  measure  of  walnuts,  or  an  apple  as  red  cheeked 
as  himself.  There  are  no  words  as  to  price,  that 
being  as  well  known  to  the  buyer  as  to  the  seller. 
The  old  apple-dealer  never  speaks  an  unnecessary 
word ;  not  that  he  is  sullen  and  morose  ;  but  there  is 
none  of  the  cheeriness  and  briskness  in  him,  that  stirs 
up  people  to  talk. 

Not  seldom,  he  is  greeted  by  some  old  neighbor,  a 
man  well-to-do  in  the  world,  who  makes  a  civil,  patron- 
izing observation  about  the  weather ;  and  then,  by  way 
of  performing  a  charitable  deed,  begins  to  chaffer  for 
an  apple.  Our  friend  presumes  not  on  any  past  ac- 
quaintance ;  he  makes  the  briefest  possible  response 
to  all  general  remarks,  and  shrinks  quietly  into  himself 
again.  After  every  diminution  of  his  stock,  he  takes 
care  to  produce  from  the  basket  another  cake,  another 
stick  of  candy,  another  apple,  or  another  measure  of 
walnuts,  to  supply  the  place  of  the  article  sold.  Two 
or  three  attempts  —  or,  perchance,  half  a  dozen  —  are 
requisite,  before  the  board  can  be  rearranged  to  his  sat- 


THE   OLD   APPLE-DEALER        185 

isfaction.  If  he  have  received  a  silver  coin,  he  waits 
till  the  purchaser  is  out  of  sight,  then  examines  it 
closely,  and  tries  to  bend  it  with  his  finger  and  thumb ; 
finally,  he  puts  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  with  seem- 
ingly a  gentle  sigh.  This  sigh,  so  faint  as  to  be  hardly 
perceptible,  and  not  expressive  of  any  definite  emotion, 
is  the  accompaniment  and  conclusion  of  all  his  actions. 
It  is  the  symbol  of  the  chilliness  and  torpid  melancholy 
of  his  old  age,  which  only  make  themselves  felt  sensibly, 
when  his  repose  is  slightly  disturbed. 

Our  man  of  gingerbread  and  apples  is  not  a  speci- 
men of  the  "  needy  man  who  has  seen  better  days." 
Doubtless,  there  have  been  better  and  brighter  days 
in  the  far-off  time  of  his  youth ;  but  none  with  so  much 
sunshine  of  prosperity  in  them,  that  the  chill,  the  de- 
pression, the  narrowness  of  means,  in  his  declining  years, 
can  have  come  upon  him  by  surprise.  His  life  has  all 
been  of  a  piece.  His  subdued  and  nerveless  boyhood 
prefigured  his  abortive  prime,  which,  likewise,  contained 
within  itself  the  prophecy  and  image  of  his  lean  and 
torpid  age.  He  was  perhaps  a  mechanic,  who  never 
came  to  be  a  master  in  his  craft,  or  a  petty  tradesman, 
rubbing  onward  between  passably-to-do  and  poverty. 
Possibly,  he  may  look  back  to  some  brilliant  epoch  of 
his  career,  when  there  were  a  hundred  or  two  of  dollars 
to  his  credit,  in  the  Savings  Bank.  Such  must  have 
been  the  extent  of  his  better  fortune  —  his  little  meas- 
ure of  this  world's  triumphs — all  that  he  has  known  of 
success.  A  meek,  downcast,  humble,  uncomplaining 
creature,  he  probably  has  never  felt  himself  entitled 
to  more  than  so  much  of  the  gifts  of  Providence.  Is 
it  not  still  something,  that  he  has  never  held  out  his 
hand  for  charity,  nor  has  yet  been  driven  to  that  sad 
home  and  household  of  Earth's  forlorn  and  broken- 
spirited  children,  the  alms-house  ?  He  cherishes  no 
quarrel,  therefore,  with  his  destiny,  nor  with  the  Author 
of  it.  All  is  as  it  should  be. 

If,  indeed,  he  have  been  bereaved  of  a  son  —  a  bold, 
energetic,  vigorous  young  man,  on  whom  the  father's 
feeble  nature  leaned,  as  on  a  staff  of  strength  —  in 


i86     MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

that  case,  he  may  have  felt  a  bitterness  that  could  not 
otherwise  have  been  generated  in  his  heart.  But  me- 
thinks,  the  joy  of  possessing  such  a  son,  and  the  agony 
of  losing  him,  would  have  developed  the  old  man's 
moral  and  intellectual  nature  to  a  much  greater  degree 
than  we  now  find  it.  Intense  grief  appears  to  be  as 
much  out  of  keeping  with  his  life,  as  fervid  happiness. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  is  not  the  easiest  matter  in 
the  world  to  define  and  individualize  a  character  like 
this  which  we  are  now  handling.  The  portrait  must 
be  so  gently  negative,  that  the  most  delicate  pencil  is 
likely  to  spoil  it  by  introducing  some  too  positive  tint. 
Every  touch  must  be  kept  down,  or  else  you  destroy 
the  subdued  tone,  which  is  absolutely  essential  to  the 
whole  effect.  Perhaps  more  may  be  done  by  contrast, 
than  by  direct  description.  For  this  purpose,  I  make 
use  of  another  cake-and-candy  merchant,  who  likewise 
infests  the  railway  depot.  This  latter  worthy  is  a  very 
smart  and  well-dressed  boy,  of  ten  years  old  or  there- 
abouts, who  skips  briskly  hither  and  thither,  addressing 
the  passengers  in  a  pert  voice,  yet  with  somewhat  of 
good  breeding  in  his  tone  and  pronunciation.  Now  he 
has  caught  my  eye,  and  skips  across  the  room  with  a 
pretty  pertness,  which  I  should  like  to  correct  with  a  box 
on  the  ear.  "  Any  cake,  sir  ?  —  any  candy  ?  " 

No ;  none  for  me,  my  lad.  I  did  but  glance  at  your 
brisk  figure,  in  order  to  catch  a  reflected  light,  and 
throw  it  upon  your  old  rival  yonder. 

Again,  in  order  to  invest  my  conception  of  the  old 
man  with  a  more  decided  sense  of  reality,  I  look  at 
him  in  the  very  moment  of  intensest  bustle,  on  the 
arrival  of  the  cars.  The  shriek  of  the  engine,  as  it 
rushes  into  the  car-house,  is  the  utterance  of  the  steam- 
fiend,  whom  man  has  subdued  by  magic  spells,  and 
compels  to  serve  as  a  beast  of  burden.  He  has  skimmed 
rivers  in  his  headlong  rush,  dashed  through  forests, 
plunged  into  the  hearts  of  mountains,  and  glanced  from 
the  city  to  the  desert  place,  and  again  to  a  far-off  city, 
with  a  meteoric  progress,  seen,  and  out  of  sight,  while 
his  reverberating  roar  still  fills  the  ear.  The  travellers 


THE   OLD   APPLE-DEALER        187 

swarm  forth  from  the  cars.  All  are  full  of  the  momen- 
tum which  they  have  caught  from  their  mode  of  con- 
veyance. It  seems  as  if  the  whole  world,  both  morally 
and  physically,  were  detached  from  its  old  standfasts, 
and  set  in  rapid  motion.  And,  in  the  midst  of  this 
terrible  activity,  there  sits  the  old  man  of  gingerbread, 
so  subdued,  so  hopeless,  so  without  a  stake  in  life,  and 
yet  not  positively  miserable  —  there  he  sits,  the  forlorn 
old  creature,  one  chill  and  sombre  day  after  another, 
gathering  scanty  coppers  for  his  cakes,  apples,  and 
candy  —  there  sits  the  old  apple-dealer,  in  his  threadbare 
suit  of  snuff-color  and  gray,  and  his  grizzly  stubble-beard. 
See !  he  folds  his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  figure,  with 
that  quiet  sigh,  and  that  scarcely  perceptible  shiver, 
which  are  the  tokens  of  his  inward  state.  I  have  him 
now.  He  and  the  steam-fiend  are  each  other's  antipo- 
des ;  the  latter  is  the  type  of  all  that  go  ahead  —  and 
the  old  man,  the  representative  of  that  melancholy  class 
who,  by  some  sad  witchcraft,  are  doomed  never  to  share 
in  the  world's  exulting  progress.  Thus  the  contrast 
between  mankind  and  this  desolate  brother  becomes 
picturesque  and  even  sublime. 

And  now  farewell,  old  friend !  Little  do  you  suspect 
that  a  student  of  human  life  has  made  your  character 
the  theme  of  more  than  one  solitary  and  thoughtful 
hour.  Many  would  say,  that  you  have  hardly  individual- 
ity enough  to  be  the  object  of  your  own  self-love.  How, 
then,  can  a  stranger's  eye  detect  anything  in  your  mind 
and  heart,  to  study  and  to  wonder  at?  Yet  could  I 
read  but  a  tithe  of  what  is  written  there,  it  would  be  a 
volume  of  deeper  and  more  comprehensive  import  than 
all  that  the  wisest  mortals  have  given  to  the  world;  for  the 
soundless  depths  of  the  human  soul,  and  of  eternity, 
have  an  opening  through  your  breast.  God  be  praised, 
were  it  only  for  your  sake,  that  the  present  shapes  of 
human  existence  are  not  cast  in  iron,  nor  hewn  in  ever- 
lasting adamant,  but  moulded  of  the  vapors  that  vanish 
away  while  the  essence  flits  upward  to  the  infinite. 
There  is  a  spiritual  essence  in  this  gray  and  lean  old 
shape  that  shall  flit  upward,  too.  Yes ;  doubtless  there 


1 88    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

is  a  region,  where  the  life-long  shiver  will  pass  away 
from  his  being,  and  that  quiet  sigh,  which  it  has  taken 
him  so  many  years  to  breathe,  will  be  brought  to  a  close 
for  good  and  all. 


THE   ARTIST   OF  THE   BEAUTIFUL 

AN  elderly  man,  with  his  pretty  daughter  on  his  arm, 
was  passing  along  the  street,  and  emerged  from 
the  gloom  of  the  cloudy  evening  into  the  light  that  fell 
across  the  pavement  from  the  window  of  a  small  shop. 
It  was  a  projecting  window  ;  and  on  the  inside  were  sus- 
pended a  variety  of  watches,  —  pinchbeck,  silver,  and 
one  or  two  of  gold,  —  all  with  their  faces  turned  from 
the  street,  as  if  churlishly  disinclined  to  inform  the  way- 
farers what  o'clock  it  was.  Seated  within  the  shop, 
sidelong  to  the  window,  with  his  pale  face  bent  earnestly 
over  some  delicate  piece  of  mechanism,  on  which  was 
thrown  the  concentrated  lustre  of  a  shade-lamp,  ap- 
peared a  young  man. 

"What  can  Owen  Warland  be  about?"  muttered  old 
Peter  Hovenden,  —  himself  a  retired  watchmaker,  and 
the  former  master  of  this  same  young  man,  whose  occu- 
pation he  was  now  wondering  at.  "  What  can  the  fellow 
be  about  ?  These  six  months  past,  I  have  never  come 
by  his  shop  without  seeing  him  just  as  steadily  at  work 
as  now.  It  would  be  a  flight  beyond  his  usual  foolery 
to  seek  for  the  Perpetual  Motion.  And  yet  I  know  / 
enough  of  my  old  business  to  be  certain,  that  what  he  is 
now  so  busy  with  is  no  part  of  the  machinery  of  a 
watch." 

"  Perhaps,  father,"  said  Annie,  without  showing  much 
interest  in  the  question,  "  Owen  is  inventing  a  new  kind 
of  time-keeper.  I  am  sure  he  has  ingenuity  enough." 

"Pooh,  child!  he  has  not  the  sort  of  ingenuity  to 
invent  anything  better  than  a  Dutch  toy,"  answered  her 
father,  who  had  formerly  been  put  to  much  vexation  by 
Owen  Warland's  irregular  genius.  "  A  plague  on  such 
ingenuity  !  All  the  effect  that  ever  I  knew  of  it  was,  to 
spoil  the  accuracy  of  some  of  the  best  watches  in  my 
189 


190    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

shop.  He  would  turn  the  sun  out  of  its  orbit,  and 
derange  the  whole  course  of  time,  if,  as  I  said  before, 
his  ingenuity  could  grasp  anything  bigger  than  a  child's 
toy  ! " 

"  Hush,  father !  he  hears  you,"  whispered  Annie, 
pressing  the  old  man's  arm.  "  His  ears  are  as  delicate 
as  his  feelings,  and  you  know  how  easily  disturbed  they 
are.  Do  let  us  move  on." 

So  Peter  Hovenden  and  his  daughter  Annie  plodded 
on,  without  further  conversation,  until,  in  a  by-street  of 
the  town,  they  found  themselves  passing  the  open  door 
of  a  blacksmith's  shop.  Within  was  seen  the  forge,  now 
blazing  up,  and  illuminating  the  high  and  dusky  roof, 
and  now  confining  its  lustre  to  a  narrow  precinct  of  the 
coal-strewn  floor,  according  as  the  breath  of  the  bellows 
was  puffed  forth,  or  again  inhaled  into  its  vast  leathern 
lungs.  In  the  intervals  of  brightness,  it  was  easy  to 
distinguish  objects  in  remote  corners  of  the  shop,  and 
the  horse-shoes  that  hung  upon  the  wall ;  in  the  momen- 
tary gloom,  the  fire  seemed  to  be  glimmering  amidst  the 
vagueness  of  unenclosed  space.  Moving  about  in  this 
red  glare  and  alternate  dusk,  was  the  figure  of  the  black- 
smith, well  worthy  to  be  viewed  in  so  picturesque  an 
aspect  of  light  and  shade,  where  the  bright  blaze  strug- 
gled with  the  black  night,  as  if  each  would  have  snatched  - 
his  comely  strength  from  the  other.  Anon,  he  drew^a 
white-hot  bar  of  iron  from  the  coals,  laid  it  on  the  anvil, 
uplifted  his  arm  of  might,  and  was  seen  enveloped  in  the 
myriads  of  sparks  which  the  strokes  of  his  hammer  scat- 
tered into  the  surrounding  gloom. 

"  Now,  that  is  a  pleasant  sight,"  said  the  old  watch- 
maker. "  I  know  what  it  is  to  work  in  gold,  but  give 
me  the  worker  in  iron,  after  all  is  said  and  done.  He 
spends  his  labor  upon  a  reality.  What  say  you,  daugh- 
ter Annie  ? " 

"  Pray  don't  speak  so  loud,  father,"  whispered  Annie, 
"  Robert  Danforth  will  hear  you." 

"And  what  if  he  should  hear  me?"  said  Peter 
Hovenden  ;  "  I  say  again,  it  is  a  good  and  a  wholesome 
thing  to  depend  upon  main  strength  and  reality,  and  to 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    191 

earn  one's  bread  with  the  bare  and  brawny  arm  of  a 
blacksmith.  A  watchmaker  gets  his  brain  puzzled  by 
his  wheels  within  a  wheel,  or  loses  his  health  or  the 
nicety  of  his  eyesight,  as  was  my  case ;  and  finds  him- 
self, at  middle  age,  or  a  little  after,  past  labor  at  his  own 
trade,  and  fit  for  nothing  else,  yet  too  poor  to  live  at  his 
ease.  So,  I  say  once  again,  give  me  main  strength  for 
my  money.  And  then,  how  it  takes  the  nonsense  out  of 
a  man  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  blacksmith  being  such 
a  fool  as  Owen  Warland,  yonder  ? " 

"  Well  said,  uncle  Hovenden  !  "  shouted  Robert  Dan- 
forth,  from  the  forge,  in  a  full,  deep,  merry  voice,  that 
made  the  roof  re-echo.  "  And  what  says  Miss  Annie  to 
that  doctrine  ?  She,  I  suppose,  will  think  it  a  genteeler 
business  to  tinker  up  a  lady's  watch  than  to  forge  a 
horse-shoe  or  make  a  gridiron  !  " 

Annie  drew  her  father  onward,  without  giving  him 
time  for  reply. 

But  we  must  return  to  Owen  Warland's  shop,  and 
spend  more  meditation  upon  his  history  and  character 
than  either  Peter  Hovenden,  or  probably  his  daughter 
Annie,  or  Owen's  old  school-fellow,  Robert  Danforth, 
would  have  thought  due  to  so  slight  a  subject.  From 
the  time  that  his  little  fingers  could  grasp  a  pen-knife, 
Owen  had  been  remarkable  for  a  delicate  ingenuity, 
which  sometimes  produced  pretty  shapes  in  wood,  prin- 
cipally figures  of  flowers  and  birds,  and  sometimes 
seemed  to  aim  at  the  hidden  mysteries  of  mechanism. 
But  it  was  always  for  purposes  of  grace,  and  never  with 
any  mockery  of  the  useful.  He  did  not,  like  the  crowd 
of  school-boy  artisans,  construct  little  windmills  on  the 
angle  of  a  barn,  or  watermills  across  the  neighboring 
brook.  Those  who  discovered  such  peculiarity  in  the 
boy,  as  to  think  it  worth  their  while  to  observe  him 
closely,  sometimes  saw  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
attempting  to  imitate  the  beautiful  movements  of  nature, 
as  exemplified  in  the  flight  of  birds  or  the  activity  of  little 
animals.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  a  new  development  of  the 
love  of  the  Beautiful,  such  as  might  have  made  him  a 
poet,  a  painter,  or  a  sculptor,  and  which  was  as  com- 


192    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

pletely  refined  from  all  utilitarian  coarseness,  as  it  could 
have  been  in  either  of  the  fine  arts.  He  looked  with 
singular  distaste  at  the  stiff  and  regular  processes  of 
ordinary  machinery.  Being  once  carried  to  see  a  steam- 
engine,  in  the  expectation  that  his  intuitive  comprehen- 
sion of  mechanical  principles  would  be  gratified,  he 
turned  pale,  and  grew  sick,  as  if  something  monstrous 
and  unnatural  had  been  presented  to  him.  This  horror 
was  partly  owing  to  the  size  and  terrible  energy  of  the 
Iron  Laborer;  for  the  character  of  Owen's  mind  was 
microscopic,  and  tended  naturally  to  the  minute,  in 
accordance  with  his  diminutive  frame,  and  the  marvel- 
lous smallness  and  delicate  power  of  his  fingers.  Not 
that  his  sense  of  beauty  was  thereby  diminished  into  a 
sense  of  prettiness.  The  beautiful  Idea  has  no  relation 
to  size,  and  may  be  as  perfectly  developed  in  a  space  too 
minute  for  any  but  microscopic  investigation,  as  within 
the  ample  verge  that  is  measured  by  the  arc  of  the  rain- 
bow ;  but,  at  all  events,  this  characteristic  minuteness  in 
his  objects  and  accomplishments  made  the  world  even 
more  incapable  than  it  might  otherwise  have  been,  of 
appreciating  Owen  Warland's  genius.  The  boy's  rela- 
tives saw  nothing  better  to  be  done  —  as  perhaps  there 
was  not  —  than  to  bind  him  apprentice  to  a  watchmaker, 
hoping  that  his  strange  ingenuity  might  thus  be  regu- 
lated and  put  to  utilitarian  purposes. 

Peter  Hovenden's  opinion  of  his  apprentice  has  al- 
ready been  expressed.  He  could  make  nothing  of  the 
lad.  Owen's  apprehension  of  the  professional  mysteries, 
it  is  true,  was  inconceivably  quick.  But  he  altogether 
forgot  or  despised  the  grand  object  of  a  watchmaker's 
business,  and  cared  no  more  for  the  measurement  of 
time  than  if  it  had  been  merged  into  eternity.  So  long, 
however,  as  he  remained  under  his  old  master's  care, 
Owen's  lack  of  sturdiness  made  it  possible,  by  strict 
injunctions  and  sharp  oversight,  to  restrain  his  creative 
eccentricity  within  bounds.  But  when  his  apprentice- 
ship was  served  out,  and  he  had  taken  the  little  shop 
which  Peter  Hovenden's  failing  eyesight  compelled  him 
to  relinquish,  then  did  people  recognize  how  unfit  a  per- 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   193 

son  was  Owen  Warland  to  lead  old  blind  Father  Time 
along  his  daily  course.  One  of  his  most  rational  projects 
was,  to  connect  a  musical  operation  with  the  machinery 
of  his  watches,  so  that  all  the  harsh  dissonances  of  life 
might  be  rendered  tuneful,  and  each  flitting  moment 
fall  into  the  abyss  of  the  Past  in  golden  drops  of  har- 
mony. If  a  family-clock  was  intrusted  to  him  for  re- 
pair —  one  of  those  tall,  ancient  clocks  that  have  grown 
nearly  allied  to  human  nature,  by  measuring  out  the 
lifetime  of  many  generations  —  he  would  take  upon  him- 
self to  arrange  a  dance  or  funeral  procession  of  figures 
across  its  venerable  face,  representing  twelve  mirthful 
or  melancholy  hours.  Several  freaks  of  this  kind  quite 
destroyed  the  young  watchmaker's  credit  with  that  steady 
and  matter-of-fact  class  of  people,  who  hold  the  opinion 
that  time  is  not  to  be  trifled  with,  whether  considered 
as  the  medium  of  advancement  and  prosperity  in  this 
world,  or  preparation  for  the  next.  His  custom  rapidly 
diminished  —  a  misfortune,  however,  that  was  probably 
reckoned  among  his  better  accidents  by  Owen  Warland, 
who  was  becoming  more  and  more  absorbed  in  a  secret 
occupation,  which  drew  all  his  science  and  manual  dex- 
terity into  itself,  and  likewise  gave  full  employment  to 
the  characteristic  tendencies  of  his  genius.  This  pur- 
suit had  already  consumed  many  months. 

After  the  old  watchmaker  and  his  pretty  daughter 
had  gazed  at  him,  out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  street, 
Owen  Warland  was  seized  with  a  fluttering  of  the 
nerves,  which  made  his  hand  tremble  too  violently  to 
proceed  with  such  delicate  labor  as  he  was  now  engaged 
upon. 

"  It  was  Annie  herself !  "  murmured  he.  "  I  should 
have  known  by  this  throbbing  of  my  heart,  before  I 
heard  her  father's  voice.  Ah,  how  it  throbs !  I  shall 
scarcely  be  able  to  work  again  on  this  exquisite  mechan- 
ism to-night.  Annie  —  dearest  Annie  —  thou  shouldst 
give  firmness  to  my  heart  and  hand,  and  not  shake  them 
thus ;  for  if  I  strive  to  put  the  very  spirit  of  Beauty  into 
form,  and  give  it  motion,  it  is  for  thy  sake  alone.  Oh, 
throbbing  heart,  be  quiet !  If  my  labor  be  thus  thwarted, 


194    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

there  will  come  vague  and  unsatisfied  dreams,  which  will 
leave  me  spiritless  to-morrow." 

As  he  was  endeavoring  to  settle  himself  again  to  his 
task,  the  shop-door  opened,  and  gave  admittance  to  no 
other  than  the  stalwart  figure  which  Peter  Hovenden 
had  paused  to  admire,  as  seen  amid  the  light  and  shadow 
of  the  blacksmith's  shop.  Robert  Danforth  had  brought 
a  little  anvil  of  his  own  manufacture,  and  peculiarly  con- 
structed, which  the  young  artist  had  recently  bespoken. 
Owen  examined  the  article,  and  pronounced  it  fashioned 
according  to  his  wish. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Robert  Danforth,  his  strong  voice 
filling  the  shop  as  with  the  sound  of  a  bass-viol,  "  I  con- 
sider myself  equal  to  anything  in  the  way  of  my  own 
trade ;  though  I  should  have  made  but  a  poor  figure  at 
yours,  with  such  a  fist  as  this,"  —  added  he,  laughing, 
as  he  laid  his  vast  hand  beside  the  delicate  one  of  Owen. 
"  But  what  then  ?  I  put  more  main  strength  into  one 
blow  of  my  sledge-hammer,  than  all  that  you  have  ex- 
pended since  you  were  a  'prentice.  Is  not  that  the  truth  ? " 

"Very  probably,"  answered  the  low  and  slender  voice 
of  Owen.  "  Strength  is  an  earthly  monster.  I  make 
no  pretensions  to  it.  My  force,  whatever  there  may  be 
of  it,  is  altogether  spiritual." 

"  Well,  but,  Owen,  what  are  you  about  ? "  asked  his 
old  school-fellow,  still  in  such  a  hearty  volume  of  tone 
that  it  made  the  artist  shrink ;  especially  as  the  question 
related  to  a  subject  so  sacred  as  the  absorbing  dream  of 
his  imagination.  "  Folks  do  say,  that  you  are  trying  to 
discover  the  Perpetual  Mdtion." 

"  The  Perpetual  Motion  ?  —  nonsense !  "  replied  Owen 
Warland,  with  a  movement  of  disgust ;  for  he  was  full 
of  little  petulances.  "  It  never  can  be  discovered  !  It 
is  a  dream  that  may  delude  men' whose  brains  are  mys- 
tified with  matter,  but  not  me.  Besides,  if  such  a  dis- 
covery were  possible,  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while 
to  make  it,  only  to  have  the  secret  turned  to  such  pur- 
poses as  are  now  effected  by  steam  and  water-power. 
I  am  not  ambitious  to  be  honored  with  the  paternity  of 
a  new  kind  of  cotton-machine." 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    195 

"  That  would  be  droll  enough  !  "  cried  the  blacksmith, 
breaking  out  into  such  an  uproar  of  laughter,  that  Owen 
himself,  and  the  bell-glasses  on  his  work-board,  quivered 
in  unison.  "  No,  no,  Owen !  No  child  of  yours  will 
have  iron  joints  and  sinews.  Well,  I  won't  hinder  you 
any  more.  Good  night,  Owen,  and  success ;  and  if  you 
need  any  assistance,  so  far  as  a  downright  blow  of  ham- 
mer upon  anvil  will  answer  the  purpose,  I'm  your 
man ! " 

And  with  another  laugh,  the  man  of  main  strength 
left  the  shop. 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  whispered  Owen  Warland  to 
himself,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  "that  all  my 
musings,  my  purposes,  my  passion  for  the  Beautiful, 
my  consciousness  of  power  to  create  it  —  a  finer,  more 
ethereal  power,  of  which  this  earthly  giant  can  have  no 
conception  —  all,  all,  look  so  vain  and  idle  whenever  my 
path  is  crossed  by  Robert  Danforth !  He  would  drive 
me  mad,  were  I  to  meet  him  often.  His  hard,  brute 
force  darkens  and  confuses  the  spiritual  element  within 
me.  But  I,  too,  will  be  strong  in  my  own  way.  I  will 
not  yield  to  him  !  " 

He  took  from  beneath  a  glass  a  piece  of  minute  ma- 
chinery, which  he  set  in  the  condensed  light  of  his 
lamp,  and,  looking  intently  at  it  through  a  magnifying 
glass,  proceeded  to  operate  with  a  delicate  instrument 
of  steel.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  fell  back  in  his 
chair,  and  clasped  his  hands,  with  a  look  of  horror  on 
his  face,  that  made  its  small  features  as  impressive  as 
those  of  a  giant  would  have  been. 

"  Heaven  !  What  have  I  done  !  "  exclaimed  he. 
"The  vapor!  —  the  influence  of  that  brute  force!  —  it 
has  bewildered  me,  and  obscured  my  perception.  I 
have  made  the  very  stroke  —  the  fatal  stroke  —  that  I 
have  dreaded  from  the  first!  It  is  all  over  —  the  toil  of 
months  —  the  object  of  my  life  !  I  am  ruined  !  " 

And  there  he  sat,  in  strange  despair,  until  his  lamp 
flickered  in  the  socket,  and  left  the  Artist  of  the  Beau- 
tiful in  darkness. 
/  Thus  it  is,  that  ideas  which  grow  up  within  the  im- 


196    MOSSES    FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

agination,  and  appear  so  lovely  to  it,  and  of   a  value 
beyond  whatever  men  call  valuable,  are  exposed  to  be 
shattered  and  annihilated  by  contact  with  the  Practical.  / 
It  is  requisite  for  the  ideal  artist  to  possess  a  force  oF 
character  that  seems  hardly  compatible  with  its  delicacy ; 
he  must  keep  his  faith  in  himself,  while  the  incredulous 
world  assails  him  with  its  utter  disbelief ;  he  must  stand 
up  against  mankind  and  be  his  own  sole  disciple,  both 
as  respects   his   genius  and  the  objects  to  which  it  is 
directed. 

For  a  time,  Owen  Warland  succumbed  to  this  severe 
but  inevitable  test.  He  spent  a  few  sluggish  weeks, 
with  his  head  so  continually  resting  in  his  hands,  that 
the  townspeople  had  scarcely  an  opportunity  to  see  his 
countenance.  When,  at  last,  it  was  again  uplifted  to 
the  light  of  day,  a  cold,  dull,  nameless  change  was  per- 
ceptible upon  it.  In  the  opinion  of  Peter  Hovenden, 
however,  and  that  order  of  sagacious  understandings 
who  think  that  life  should  be  regulated,  like  clock-work, 
with  leaden  weights,  the  alteration  was  entirely  for  the 
better.  Owen,  now,  indeed,  applied  himself  to  business 
with  dogged  industry.  It  was  marvellous  to  witness 
the  obtuse  gravity  with  which  he  would  inspect  the 
wheels  of  a  great,  old  silver  watch ;  thereby  delighting 
the  owner,  in  whose  fob  it  had  been  worn  till  he  deemed 
it  a  portion  of  his  own  life,  and  was  accordingly  jealous 
of  its  treatment.  In  consequence  of  the  good  report 
thus  acquired,  Owen  Warland  was  invited  by  the  proper 
authorities  to  regulate  the  clock  in  the  church-steeple. 
He  succeeded  so  admirably  in  this  matter  of  public 
interest,  that  the  merchants  gruffly  acknowledged  his 
merits  on  'Change ;  the  nurse  whispered  his  praises,  as 
she  gave  the  potion  in  the  sick-chamber ;  the  lover 
blessed  him  at  the  hour  of  appointed  interview;  and 
the  town  in  general  thanked  Owen  for  the  punctuality 
of  dinner-time.  In  a  word,  the  heavy  weight  upon  his 
spirits  kept  everything  in  order,  not  merely  within  his 
own  system,  but  wheresoever  the  iron  accents  of  the 
church-clock  were  audible.  It  was  a  circumstance, 
though  minute,  yet  characteristic  of  his  present  state, 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    197 

that,  when  employed  to  engrave  names  or  initials  on 
silver  spoons,  he  now  wrote  the  requisite  letters  in  the 
plainest  possible  style;  omitting  a  variety  of  fanciful 
flourishes,  that  had  heretofore  distinguished  his  work  in 
this  kind. 

One  day,  during  the  era  of  this  happy  transformation, 
old  Peter  Hovenden  came  to  visit  his  former  apprentice. 

"  Well,  Owen,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  such  good 
accounts  of  you  from  all  quarters  ;  and  especially  from 
the  town-clock  yonder,  which  speaks  in  your  commenda- 
tion every  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Only  get  rid  al- 
together of  your  nonsensical  trash  about  the  Beautiful  — 
which  I,  nor  nobody  else,  nor  yourself  to  boot,  could 
ever  understand  —  only  free  yourself  of  that,  and  your 
success  in  life  is  as  sure  as  daylight.  Why,  if  you  go 
on  in  this  way,  I  should  even  venture  to  let  you  doctor 
this  precious  old  watch  of  mine ;  though,  except  my 
daughter  Annie,  I  have  nothing  else  so  valuable  in  the 
world." 

"  I  should  hardly  dare  touch  it,  sir,"  replied  Owen,  in 
a  depressed  tone ;  for  he  was  weighed  down  by  his  old 
master's  presence. 

"  In  time,"  said  the  latter,  "in  time  you  will  be  capa- 
ble of  it." 

The  old  watchmaker,  with  the  freedom  naturally  con- 
sequent on  his  former  authority,  went  on  inspecting  the 
work  which  Owen  had  in  hand  at  the  moment,  together 
with  other  matters  that  were  in  progress.  The  artist, 
meanwhile,  could  scarcely  lift  his  head.  There  was 
nothing  so  antipodal  to  his  nature  as  this  man's  cold, 
unimaginative  sagacity,  by  contact  with  which  every- 
thing was  converted  into  a  dream,  except  the  densest 
matter  of  the  physical  world.  Owen  groaned  in  spirit, 
and  prayed  fervently  to  be  delivered  from  him. 

"  But  what  is  this  ?  "  cried  Peter  Hovenden,  abruptly, 
taking  up  a  dusty  bell-glass,  beneath  which  appeared 
a  mechanical  something,  as  delicate  and  minute  as  the 
system  of  a  butterfly's  anatomy.  "  What  have  we  here  ! 
Owen,  Owen !  there  is  witchcraft  in  these  little  chains, 
and  wheels,  and  paddles !  See !  with  one  pinch  of  my 


I98    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

finger  and  thumb,  I  am  going  to  deliver  you  from  all 
future  peril." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  screamed  Owen  Warland, 
springing  up  with  wonderful  energy,  "  as  you  would 
not  drive  me  mad  —  do  not  touch  it !  The  slightest 
pressure  of  your  finger  would  ruin  me  forever." 

"  Aha,  young  man !  And  is  it  so  ? "  said  the  old 
watchmaker,  looking  at  him  with  just  enough  of  pene- 
tration to  torture  Owen's  soul  with  the  bitterness  of 
worldly  criticism.  "  Well ;  take  your  own  course.  But 
I  warn  you  again,  that  in  this  small  piece  of  mechanism 
lives  your  evil  spirit.  Shall  I  exorcise  him  ? " 

"  You  are  my  Evil  Spirit,"  answered  Owen,  much 
excited  — "  you,  and  the  hard,  coarse  world !  The 
leaden  thoughts  and  the  despondency  that  you  fling 
upon  me  are  my  clogs.  Else,  I  should  long  ago  have 
achieved  the  task  that  I  was  created  for." 

Peter  Hovenden  shook  his  head,  with  the  mixture 
of  contempt  and  indignation  which  mankind,  of  whom 
he  was  partly  a  representative,  deem  themselves  en- 
titled to  feel  towards  all  simpletons  who  seek  other 
prizes  than  the  dusty  one  along  the  highway.  He 
then  took  his  leave  with  an  uplifted  finger,  and  a  sneer 
upon  his  face,  that  haunted  the  artist's  dreams  for  many 
a  night  afterwards.  At  the  time  of  his  old  master's 
visit,  Owen  was  probably  on  the  point  of  taking  up 
the  relinquished  task;  but,  by  this  sinister  event,  he 
was  thrown  back  into  the  state  whence  he  had  been 
slowly  emerging. 

But  the  innate  tendency  of  his  soul  had  only  been 
accumulating  fresh  vigor,  during  its  apparent  sluggish- 
ness. As  the  summer  advanced,  he  almost  totally  re- 
linquished his  business,  and  permitted  Father  Time,  so 
far  as  the  old  gentleman  was  represented  by  the  clocks 
and  watches  under  his  control,  to  stray  at  random 
through  human  life,  making  infinite  confusion  among 
the  train  of  bewildered  hours.  He  wasted  the  sunshine, 
as  people  said,  in  wandering  through  the  woods  and 
fields,  and  along  the  banks  of  streams.  There,  like  a 
child,  he  found  amusement  in  chasing  butterflies,  or 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    199 

watching  the  motions  of  water-insects.  There  was 
something  truly  mysterious  in  the  intentness  with  which 
he  contemplated  these  living  playthings,  as  they  sported 
on  the  breeze ;  or  examined  the  structure  of  an  impe- 
rial insect  whom  he  had  imprisoned.  The  chase  of 
butterflies  was  an  apt  emblem  of  the  ideal  pursuit  in 
which  he  had  spent  so  many  golden  hours.  But,  would 
the  Beautiful  Idea  ever  be  yielded  to  his  hand,  like  the 
butterfly  that  symbolized  it?  Sweet,  doubtless,  were 
these  days,  and  congenial  to  the  artist's  soul.  They 
were  full  of  bright  conceptions,  which  gleamed  through 
his  intellectual  world,  as  the  butterflies  gleamed  through 
the  outward  atmosphere,  and  were  real  to  him  for  the 
instant,  without  the  toil,  and  perplexity,  and  many  dis- 
appointments, of  attempting  to  make  them  visible  to 
the  sensual  eye.  Alas,  that  the  artist,  whether  in  poetry 
or  whatever  other  material,  may  not  content  himself 
with  the  inward  enjoyment  of  the  Beautiful,  but  must 
chase  the  flitting  mystery  beyond  the  verge  of  his  ethe- 
real domain,  and  crush  its  frail  being  in  seizing  it  with 
a  material  grasp !  Owen  Warland  felt  the  impulse  to 
give  external  reality  to  his  ideas,  as  irresistibly  as  any 
of  the  poets  or  painters,  who  have  arrayed  the  world 
in  a  dimmer  and  fainter  beauty,  imperfectly  copied 
from  the  richness  of  their  visions. 

The  night  was  now  his  time  for  the  slow  progress  of 
re-creating  the  one  Idea,  to  which  all  his  intellectual 
activity  referred  itself.  Always,  at  the  approach  of 
dusk,  he  stole  into  the  town,  locked  himself  within  his 
shop,  and  wrought  with  patient  delicacy  of  touch,  for 
many  hours.  Sometimes  he  was  startled  by  the  rap  of 
the  watchman,  who,  when  all  the  world  should  be 
asleep,  had  caught  the  gleam  of  lamp-light  through  the 
crevices  of  Owen  Warland's  shutters.  Daylight,  to  the 
morbid  sensibility  of  his  mind,  seemed  to  have  an  in- 
trusiveness  that  interfered  with  his  pursuits.  On  cloudy 
and  inclement  days,  therefore,  he  sat  with  his  head 
upon  his  hands,  muffling,  as  it  were,  his  sensitive  brain 
in  a  mist  of  indefinite  musings ;  for  it  was  a  relief  to 
escape  from  the  sharp  distinctness  with  which  he  was 


200    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

compelled  to  shape  out  his  thoughts,  during  his  nightly 
toil. 

From  one  of  these  fits  of  torpor,  he  was  aroused  by 
the  entrance  of  Annie  Hovenden,  who  came  into  the 
shop  with  the  freedom  of  a  customer,  and  also  with 
something  of  the  familiarity  of  a  childish  friend.  She 
had  worn  a  hole  through  her  silver  thimble,  and  wanted 
Owen  to  repair  it. 

"  But  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  condescend  to 
such  a  task,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  now  that  you  are  so 
taken  up  with  the  notion  of  putting  spirit  into  machin- 
ery." 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  idea,  Annie  ? "  said  Owen, 
starting  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  out  of  my  own  head,"  answered  she,  "  and 
from  something  that  I  heard  you  say,  long  ago,  when 
you  were  but  a  boy,  and  I  a  little  child.  But,  come ! 
will  you  mend  this  poor  thimble  of  mine  ? " 

"  Anything  for  your  sake,  Annie,"  said  Owen  War- 
land  — "  anything,  even  were  it  to  work  at  Robert 
Danforth's  forge." 

"  And  that  would  be  a  pretty  sight !  "  retorted  Annie, 
glancing  with  imperceptible  slightness  at  the  artist's 
small  and  slender  frame. "  ?fW^ll ;  here  is  the  thimble." 

"But  that  is  a  strange  idea  of  yours,"  said  Owen, 
"  about  the  spiritualization  of  matter  !  " 

And  then  the  thought  stole  into  his  mind,  that  this 
young  girl  possessed  the  gift  to  comprehend  him,  bet- 
ter than  all  the  world  beside.  And  what  a  help  and 
strength  would  it  be  to  him,  in  his  lonely  toil,  if  he 
could  gain  the  sympathy  of  the  only  being  whom  he 
loved !  To  persons  whose  pursuits  are  insulated  from 
the  common  business  of  life  —  who  are  either  in  ad- 
vance of  mankind,  or  apart  from  it  —  there  often  comes 
a  sensation  of  moral  cold,  that  makes  the  spirit  shiver, 
as  if  it  had  reached  the  frozen  solitudes  around  the 
pole.  What  the  prophet,  the  poet,  the  reformer,  the 
criminal,  or  any  other  man,  with  human  yearnings,  but 
separated  from  the  multitude  by  a  peculiar  lot,  might 
feel,  poor  Owen  Warland  felt. 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   201 

"Annie,"  cried  he,  growing  pale  as  death  at  the 
thought,  "  how  gladly  would  I  tell  you  the  secret  of 
my  pursuit!  You,  methinks,  would  estimate  it  rightly. 
You,  I  know,  would  hear  it  with  a  reverence  that  I  must 
not  expect  from  the  harsh,  material  world." 

"  Would  I  not !  to  be  sure  I  would !  "  replied  Annie 
Hovenden,  lightly  laughing.  "  Come ;  explain  to  me 
quickly  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  little  whirligig,  so 
delicately  wrought  that  it  might  be  a  plaything  for 
Queen  Mab.  See  ;  I  will  put  it  in  motion." 

"  Hold,"  exclaimed  Owen,  "  hold!  " 

Annie  had  but  given  the  slightest  possible  touch, 
with  the  point  of  a  needle,  to  the  same  minute  portion 
of  complicated  machinery  which  has  been  more  than 
once  mentioned,  when  the  artist  seized  her  by  the  wrist 
with  a  force  that  made  her  scream  aloud.  She  was 
affrighted  at  the  convulsion  of  intense  rage  and  anguish 
that  writhed  across  his  features.  The  next  instant  he 
let  his  head  sink  upon  his  hands. 

"  Go,  Annie,"  murmured  he ;  "I  have  deceived  my- 
self, and  must  suffer  for  it.  I  yearned  for  sympathy 
—  and  thought  —  and  fancied  —  and  dreamed  —  that 
you  might  give  it  me.  But  you  lack  the  talisman, 
Annie,  that  should  admit  you  into  my  secrets.  That 
touch  has  undone  the  toil  of  months,  and  the  thought 
of  a  lifetime !  It  was  not  your  fault,  Annie  —  but  you 
have  ruined  me !  " 

Poor  Owen  Warland !  He  had  indeed  erred,  yet 
pardonably ;  for  if  any  human  spirit  could  have  suf- 
ficiently reverenced  the  processes  so  sacred  in  his 
eyes,  it  must  have  been  a  woman's.  Even  Annie 
Hovenden,  possibly,  might  not  have  disappointed  him, 
had  she  been  enlightened  by  the  deep  intelligence  of  love. 

The  artist  spent  the  ensuing  winter  in  a  way  that 
satisfied  any  persons,  who  had  hitherto  retained  a 
hopeful  opinion  of  him,  that  he  was,  in  truth,  irrevo- 
cably doomed  to  inutility  as  regarded  the  world,  and 
to  an  evil  destiny  on  his  own  part.  The  decease  of  a 
relative  had  put  him  in  possession  of  a  small  inher- 
itance. Thus  freed  from  the  necessity  of  toil,  and 


202    MOSSES   FROM    AN   OLD    MANSE 

having  lost  the  steadfast  influence  of  a  great  purpose 
—  great,  at  least,  to  him  —  he  abandoned  himself  to 
habits  from  which,  it  might  have  been  supposed,  the 
mere  delicacy  of  his  organization  would  have  availed 
to  secure  him.  But  when  the  ethereal  portion  of  a 
man  of  genius  is  obscured,  the  earthly  part  assumes 
an  influence  the  more  uncontrollable,  because  the 
character  is  now  thrown  off  the  balance  to  which 
Providence  had  so  nicely  adjusted  it,  and  which,  in 
coarser  natures,  is  adjusted  by  some  other  method. 
Owen  Warland  made  proof  of  whatever  show  of  bliss 
may  be  found  in  riot.  He  looked  at  the  world  through 
the  golden  medium  of  wine,  and  contemplated  the 
visions  that  bubble  up  so  gayly  around  the  brim  of 
the  glass,  and  that  people  the  air  with  shapes  of  pleas- 
ant madness,  which  so  soon  grow  ghostly  and  forlorn. 
Even  when  this  dismal  and  inevitable  change  had 
taken  place,  the  young  man  might  still  have  con- 
tinued to  quaff  the  cup  of  enchantments,  though  its 
vapor  did  but  shroud  life  in  gloom,  and  fill  the  gloom 
with  spectres  that  mocked  at  him.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain irksomeness  of  spirit,  which,  being  real,  and  the 
deepest  sensation  of  which  the  artist  was  now  con- 
scious, was  more  intolerable  than  any  fantastic  miser- 
ies and  horrors  that  the  abuse  of  wine  could  summon 
up.  In  the  latter  case,  he  could  remember,  even  out 
of  the  midst  of  his  trouble,  that  all  was  but  a  delusion ; 
in  the  former,  the  heavy  anguish  was  his  actual  life. 

From  this  perilous  state,  he  was  redeemed  by  an 
incident  which  more  than  one  person  witnessed,  but 
of  which  the  shrewdest  could  not  explain  nor  con- 
jecture the  operation  on  Owen  Warland's  mind.  It 
was  very  simple.  On  a  warm  afternoon  of  Spring,  as 
the  artist  sat  among  his  riotous  companions,  with  a 
glass  of  wine  before  him,  a  splendid  butterfly  flew  in 
at  the  open  window,  and  fluttered  about  his  head. 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  Owen,  who  had  drank  freely, 
"  are  you  alive  again,  child  of  the  sun,  and  playmate 
of  the  summer  breeze,  after  your  dismal  winter's  nap ! 
Then  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  at  work ! " 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    203 

And,  leaving  his  unemptied  glass  upon  the  table,  he 
departed,  and  was  never  known  to  sip  another  drop 
of  wine. 

And  now,  again,  he  resumed  his  wanderings  in  the 
woods  and  fields.  It  might  be  fancied  that  the  bright 
butterfly,  which  had  come  so  spirit-like  into  the  win- 
dow, as  Owen  sat  with  his  rude  revellers,  was  indeed 
a  spirit,  commissioned  to  recall  him  to  the  pure,  ideal 
life  that  had  so  etherealized  him  among  men.  It 
might  be  fancied,  that  he  went  forth  to  seek  this 
spirit,  in  its  sunny  haunts ;  for  still,  as  in  the  summer- 
time gone  by,  he  was  seen  to  steal  gently  up,  wherever 
a  butterfly  had  alighted,  and  lose  himself  in  contem- 
plation of  it.  When  it  took  flight,  his  eyes  followed 
the  winged  vision,  as  if  its  airy  track  would  show  the 
path  to  heaven.  But  what  could  be  the  purpose  of 
the  unseasonable  toil,  which  was  again  resumed,  as  the 
watchman  knew  by  the  lines  of  lamp-light  through  the 
crevices  of  Owen  Warland's  shutters  ?  The  towns- 
people had  one  comprehensive  explanation  of  all  these 
singularities.  Owen  Warland  had  gone  mad !  How 
universally  efficacious  —  how  satisfactory,  too,  and 
soothing  to  the  injured  sensibility  of  narrowness  and 
dulness  —  is  this  easy  method  of  accounting  for  what- 
ever lies  beyond  the  world's  most  ordinary  scope ! 
From  Saint  Paul's  days,  down  to  our  poor  little  Artist 
of  the  Beautiful,  the  same  talisman  had  been  applied 
to  the  elucidation  of  all  mysteries  in  the  words  or 
deeds  of  men,  who  spoke  or  acted  too  wisely  or  too 
well.  In  Owen  Warland's  case,  the  judgment  of  his 
townspeople  may  have  been  correct.  Perhaps  he  was 
mad.  The  lack  of  sympathy  —  that  contrast  between 
himself  and  his  neighbors,  which  took  away  the  re- 
straint of  example — was  enough  to  make  him  so. 
Or,  possibly,  he  had  caught  just  so  much  of  ethereal 
radiance  as  served  to  bewilder  him,  in  an  earthly 
sense,  by  its  intermixture  with  the  common  daylight. 

One  evening,  when  the  artist  had  returned  from  a 
customary  ramble,  and  had  just  thrown  the  lustre  of 
his  lamp  on  the  delicate  piece  of  work,  so  often  inter- 


204    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

rupted,  but  still  taken  up  again,  as  if  his  fate  were 
embodied  in  its  mechanism,  he  was  surprised  by  the 
entrance  of  old  Peter  Hovenden.  Owen  never  met 
this  man  without  a  shrinking  of  the  heart.  Of  all  the 
world,  he  was  most  terrible,  by  reason  of  a  keen  under- 
standing, which  saw  so  distinctly  what  it  did  see,  and 
disbelieved  so  uncompromisingly  in  what  it  could  not 
see.  On  this  occasion,  the  old  watchmaker  had  merely 
a  gracious  word  or  two  to  say. 

"Owen,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "we  must  see  you  at  my 
house  to-morrow  night." 

The  artist  began  to  mutter  some  excuse. 

"Oh,  but  it  must  be  so,"  quoth  Peter  Hovenden, 
"  for  the  sake  of  the  days  when  you  were  one  of  the 
household.  What,  my  boy,  don't  you  know  that  my 
daughter  Annie  is  engaged  to  Robert  Danforth  ?  We 
are  making  an  entertainment,  in  our  humble  way,  to 
celebrate  the  event." 

"Ah!"  said  Owen. 

That  little  monosyllable  was  all  he  uttered ;  its  tone 
seemed  cold  and  unconcerned,  to  an  ear  like  Peter 
Hovenden's ;  and  yet  there  was  in  it  the  stifled  outcry 
of  the  poor  artist's  heart,  which  he  compressed  within 
him  like  a  man  holding  down  an  evil  spirit.  One 
slight  outbreak,  however,  imperceptible  to  the  old 
watchmaker,  he  allowed  himself.  Raising  the  instru- 
ment with  which  he  was  about  to  begin  his  work,  he 
let  it  fall  upon  the  little  system  of  machinery  that 
had,  anew,  cost  him  months  of  thought  and  toil.  It 
was  shattered  by  the  stroke ! 

Owen  Warland's  story  would  have  been  no  tolerable 
representation  of  the  troubled  life  of  those  who  strive 
to  create  the  Beautiful,  if  amid  all  other  thwarting 
influences  love  had  not  interposed  to  steal  the  cun- 
ning from  his  hand.  Outwardly  he  had  been  no 
ardent  or  enterprising  lover ;  the  career  of  his  pas- 
sion had  confined  its  tumults  and  vicissitudes  so 
entirely  within  the  artist's  imagination,  that  Annie 
herself  had  scarcely  more  than  a  woman's  intuitive 
perception  of  it.  But,  in  Owen's  view,  it  covered  the 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   205 

whole  field  of  his  life.  Forgetful  of  the  time  when 
she  had  shown  herself  incapable  of  any  deep  response, 
he  had  persisted  in  connecting  all  his  dreams  of  artis- 
tical  success  with  Annie's  image ;  she  was  the  visible 
shape  in  which  the  spiritual  power  that  he  worshipped, 
and  on  whose  altar  he  hoped  to  lay  a  not  unworthy 
offering,  was  made  manifest  to  him.  Of  course  he 
had  deceived  himself ;  there  were  no  such  attributes 
in  Annie  Hovenden  as  his  imagination  had  endowed 
her  with.  She,  in  the  aspect  which  she  wore  to  his 
inward  vision,  was  as  much  a  creation  of  his  own,  as 
the  mysterious  piece  of  mechanism  would  be  were  it 
ever  realized.  Had  he  become  convinced  of  his  mis- 
take through  the  medium  of  successful  love ;  had  he 
won  Annie  to  his  bosom,  and  there  beheld  her  fade 
from  angel  into  ordinary  woman,  the  disappointment 
might  have  driven  him  back,  with  concentrated  energy, 
upon  his  sole  remaining  object.  On  the  other  hand, 
had  he  found  Annie  what  he  fancied,  his  lot  would 
have  been  so  rich  in  beauty,  that  out  of  its  mere 
redundancy  he  might  have  wrought  the  Beautiful  into 
many  a  worthier  type  than  he  had  toiled  for.  But  the 
guise  in  which  his  sorrow  came  to  him,  the  sense  that 
the  angel  of  his  life  had  been  snatched  away  and  given 
to  a  rude  man  of  earth  and  iron,  who  could  neither 
need  nor  appreciate  her  ministrations ;  this  was  the 
very  perversity  of  fate,  that  makes  human  existence 
appear  too  absurd  and  contradictory  to  be  the  scene 
of  one  other  hope  or  one  other  fear.  There  was 
nothing  left  for  Owen  Warland  but  to  sit  down  like 
a  man  that  had  been  stunned. 

He  went  through  a  fit  of  illness.  After  his  recovery, 
his  small  and  slender  frame  assumed  an  obtuser  garni- 
ture of  flesh  than  it  had  ever  before  worn.  His  thin 
cheeks  became  round ;  his  delicate  little  hand,  so  spirit- 
ually fashioned  to  achieve  fairy  task-work,  grew  plumper 
than  the  hand  of  a  thriving  infant.  His  aspect  had  a 
childishness,  such  as  might  have  induced  a  stranger  to 
pat  him  on  the  head  —  pausing,  however,  in  the  act,  to 
wonder  what  manner  of  child  was  here.  It  was  as  if  the 


206    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

spirit  had  gone  out  of  him,  leaving  the  body  to  nourish 
in  a  sort  of  vegetable  existence.  Not  that  Owen  War- 
land  was  idiotic.  He  could  talk,  and  not  irrationally. 
Somewhat  of  a  babbler,  indeed,  did  people  begin  to  think 
him ;  for  he  was  apt  to  discourse  at  wearisome  length, 
of  marvels  of  mechanism  that  he  had  read  about  in 
books,  but  which  he  had  learned  to  consider  as  absolutely 
fabulous.  Among  them  he  enumerated  the  Man  of  Brass, 
constructed  by  Albertus  Magnus,  and  the  Brazen  Head 
of  Friar  Bacon ;  and,  coming  down  to  later  times,  the 
automata  of  a  little  coach  and  horses,  which,  it  was  pre- 
tended, had  been  manufactured  for  the  Dauphin  of 
France ;  together  with  an  insect  that  buzzed  about  the 
ear  like  a  living  fly,  and  yet  was  but  a  contrivance  of 
minute  steel  springs.  There  was  a  story,  too,  of  a  duck 
that  waddled,  and  quacked,  and  ate ;  though,  had  any 
honest  citizen  purchased  it  for  dinner,  he  would  have 
found  himself  cheated  with  the  mere  mechanical  appari- 
tion of  a  duck. 

"  But  all  these  accounts,"  said  Owen  Warland,  "  I  am 
now  satisfied,  are  mere  impositions." 

Then,  in  a  mysterious  way,  he  would  confess  that  he 
once  thought  differently.  In  his  idle  and  dreamy  days 
he  had  considered  it  possible,  in  a  certain  sense,  to 
spiritualize  machinery ;  and  to  combine  with  the  new 
species  of  life  and  motion,  thus  produced,  a  beauty,  that 
should  attain  to  the  ideal,  which  Nature  has  proposed  to 
herself,  in  all  her  creatures,  but  has  never  taken  pains 
to  realize.  He  seemed,  however,  to  retain  no  very  dis- 
tinct perception  either  of  the  process  of  achieving  this 
object,  or  of  the  design  itself. 

"  I  have  thrown  it  all  aside  now,"  he  would  say.  "  It 
was  a  dream,  such  as  young  men  are  always  mystifying 
themselves  with.  Now  that  I  have  acquired  a  little 
common  sense,  it  makes  me  laugh  to  think  of  it." 

Poor,  poor,  and  fallen  Owen  Warland !  These  were 
the  symptoms  that  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  inhabitant  of 
the  better  sphere  that  lies  unseen  around  us.  He  had 
lost  his  faith  in  the  invisible,  and  now  prided  himself,  as 
such  unfortunates  invariably  do,  in  the  wisdom  which 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   207 

rejected  much  that  even  his  eye  could  see,  and  trusted  con- 
fidently in  nothing  but  what  his  hand  could  touch.  This 
is  the  calamity  of  men  whose  spiritual  part  dies  out  of 
them,  and  leaves  the  grosser  understanding  to  assimilate 
them  more  and  more  to  the  things  of  which  alone  it  can 
take  cognizance.  But,  in  Owen  Warland,  the  spirit  was 
not  dead,  nor  passed  away ;  it  only  slept. 

How  it  awoke  again,  is  not  recorded.  Perhaps,  the 
torpid  slumber  was  broken  by  a  convulsive  pain.  Per- 
haps, as  in  a  former  instance,  the  butterfly  came  and 
hovered  about  his  head,  and  reinspired  him  —  as,  indeed, 
this  creature  of  the  sunshine  had  always  a  mysterious 
mission  for  the  artist  —  reinspired  him  with  the  former 
purpose  of  his  life.  Whether  it  were  pain  or  happiness 
that  thrilled  through  his  veins,  his  first  impulse  was  to 
thank  Heaven  for  rendering  him  again  the  being  of 
thought,  imagination,  and  keenest  sensibility,  that  he 
had  long  ceased  to  be. 

"  Now  for  my  task,"  said  he.  "  Never  did  I  feel 
such  strength  for  it  as  now." 

Yet,  strong  as  he  felt  himself,  he  was  incited  to  toil 
the  more  diligently,  by  an  anxiety  lest  death  should  sur- 
prise him  in  the  midst  of  his  labors.  This  anxiety,  per- 
haps, is  common  to  all  men  who  set  their  hearts  upon 
anything  so  high,  in  their  own  view  of  it,  that  life 
becomes  of  importance  only  as  conditional  to  its  accom- 
plishment. So  long  as  we  love  life  for  itself,  we  seldom 
dread  the  losing  it.  When  we  desire  life  for  the  attain- 
ment of  an  object,  we  recognize  the  frailty  of  its  texture. 
But,  side  by  side  with  this  sense  of  insecurity,  there  is  a 
vital  faith  in  our  invulnerability  to  the  shaft  of  death, 
while  engaged  in  any  task  that  seems  assigned  by  Provi- 
dence as  our  proper  thing  to  do,  and  which  the  world 
would  have  cause  to  mourn  for,  should  we  leave  it  unac- 
complished. Can  the  philosopher,  big  with  the  inspira- 
tion of  an  idea  that  is  to  reform  mankind,  believe  that 
he  is  to  be  beckoned  from  this  sensible  existence,  at  the 
very  instant  when  he  is  mustering  his  breath  to  speak 
the  word  of  light  ?  Should  he  perish  so,  the  weary  ages 
may  pass  away  —  the  world's  whole  life-sand  may  fall, 


2o8    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

drop  by  drop  —  before  another  intellect  is  prepared  to 
develop  the  truth  that  might  have  been  uttered  then. 
But  history  affords  many  an  example,  where  the  most 
precious  spirit,  at  any  particular  epoch  manifested  in 
human  shape,  has  gone  hence  untimely,  without  space 
allowed  him,  so  far  as  mortal  judgment  could  discern,  to 
perform  his  mission  on  the  earth.  The  prophet  dies ; 
and  the  man  of  torpid  heart  and  sluggish  brain  lives  on. 
The  poet  leaves  his  song  half  sung,  or  finishes  it,  beyond 
the  scope  of  mortal  ears,  in  a  celestial  choir.  The 
painter  —  as  Allston  did  —  leaves  half  his  conception  on 
the  canvas,  to  sadden  us  with  its  imperfect  beauty,  and 
goes  to  picture  forth  the  whole,  if  it  be  no  irreverence 
to  say  so,  in  the  hues  of  Heaven.  But,  rather,  such  in- 
complete designs  of  this  life  will  be  perfected  nowhere. 
This  so  frequent  abortion  of  man's  dearest  projects 
must  be  taken  as  a  proof,  that  the  deeds  of  earth,  how- 
ever etherealized  by  piety  or  genius,  are  without  value, 
except  as  exercises  and  manifestations  of  the  spirit.  In 
Heaven,  all  ordinary  thought  is  higher  and  more  melo- 
dious than  Milton's  song.  Then,  would  he  add  another 
verse  to  any  strain  that  he  had  left  unfinished  here  ? 

But  to  return  to  Owen  Warland.  It  was  his  fortune, 
good  or  ill,  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  his  life.  Pass  we 
over  a  long  space  of  intense  thought,  yearning  effort, 
minute  toil,  and  wasting  anxiety,  succeeded  by  an  instant 
of  solitary  triumph ;  let  all  this  be  imagined ;  and  then 
behold  the  artist,  on  a  winter  evening,  seeking  admit- 
tance to  Robert  Danforth's  fireside  circle.  There  he 
found  the  Man  of  Iron,  with  his  massive  substance, 
thoroughly  warmed  and  attempered  by  domestic  influ- 
ences. And  there  was  Annie,  too,  now  transformed 
into  a  matron,  with  much  of  her  husband's  plain  and 
sturdy  nature,  but  imbued,  as  Owen  Warland  still 
believed,  with  a  finer  grace,  that  might  enable  her  to 
be  the  interpreter  between  Strength  and  Beauty.  It 
happened,  likewise,  that  old  Peter  Hovenden  was  a 
guest,  this  evening,  at  his  daughter's  fireside ;  and  it 
was  his  well-remembered  expression  of  keen,  cold  criti- 
cism, that  first  encountered  the  artist's  glance. 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   209 

"  My  old  friend  Owen ! "  cried  Robert  Danforth, 
starting  up,  and  compressing  the  artist's  delicate  fin- 
gers within  a  hand  that  was  accustomed  to  gripe  bars  of 
iron.  "  This  is  kind  and  neighborly,  to  come  to  us  at 
last !  I  was  afraid  your  Perpetual  Motion  had  bewitched 
you  out  of  the  remembrance  of  old  times." 

"We  are  glad  to  see  you !  "  said  Annie,  while  a  blush 
reddened  her  matronly  cheek.  "  It  was  not  like  a  friend 
to  stay  from  us  so  long." 

"Well,  Owen,"  inquired  the  old  watchmaker,  as  his 
first  greeting,  "  how  comes  on  the  Beautiful  ?  Have 
you  created  it  at  last?" 

The  artist  did  not  immediately  reply,  being  startled 
by  the  apparition  of  a  young  child  of  strength,  that  was 
tumbling  about  on  the  carpet ;  a  little  personage  who 
had  come  mysteriously  out  of  the  infinite,  but  with 
something  so  sturdy  and  real  in  his  composition  that  he 
seemed  moulded  out  of  the  densest  substance  which 
earth  could  supply.  This  hopeful  infant  crawled  tow- 
ards the  newcomer,  and  setting  himself  on  end  —  as 
Robert  Danforth  expressed  the  posture  —  stared  at 
Owen  with  a  look  of  such  sagacious  observation,  that 
the  mother  could  not  help  exchanging  a  proud  glance 
with  her  husband.  But  the  artist  was  disturbed  by  the 
child's  look,  as  imagining  a  resemblance  between  it  and 
Peter  Hovenden's  habitual  expression.  He  could  have 
fancied  that  the  old  watchmaker  was  compressed  into 
this  baby-shape,  and  looking  out  of  those  baby-eyes, 
and  repeating  —  as  he  now  did  —  the  malicious  ques- 
tion :  — 

"  The  Beautiful,  Owen  !  How  comes  on  the  Beauti- 
ful? Have  you  succeeded  in  creating  the  Beautiful?" 

"  I  have  succeeded,"  replied  the  artist,  with  a  momen- 
tary light  of  triumph  in  his  eyes,  and  a  smile  of  sun- 
shine, yet  steeped  in  such  depth  of  thought,  that  it  was 
almost  sadness.  "  Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  truth.  I 
have  succeeded ! " 

"  Indeed ! "  cried  Annie,  a  look  of  maiden  mirthful- 
ness  peeping  out  of  her  face  again.  "  And  is  it  lawful, 
now,  to  inquire  what  the  secret  is  ? " 


210    MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"Surely;  it  is  to  disclose  it,  that  I  have  come," 
answered  Owen  Warland.  "  You  shall  know,  and  see, 
and  touch,  and  possess  the  secret !  For,  Annie  —  if  by 
that  name  I  may  still  address  the  friend  of  my  boyish 
years  —  Annie,  it  is  for  your  bridal  gift  that  I  have 
wrought  this  spiritual  mechanism,  this  harmony  of 
motion,  this  Mystery  of  Beauty  !  It  comes  late,  indeed  ; 
but  it  is  as  we  go  onward  in  life,  when  objects  begin  to 
lose  their  freshness  of  hue,  and  our  souls  their  delicacy 
of  perception,  that  the  spirit  of  Beauty  is  most  needed. 
If  —  forgive  me,  Annie  —  if  you  know  how  to  value 
this  gift,  it  can  never  come  too  late !  " 

He  produced,  as  he  spoke,  what  seemed  a  jewel-box. 
It  was  carved  richly  out  of  ebony  by  his  own  hand,  and 
inlaid  with  a  fanciful  tracery  of  pearl,  representing  a 
boy  in  pursuit  of  a  butterfly,  which,  elsewhere,  had 
become  a  winged  spirit,  and  was  flying  heavenward; 
while  the  boy,  or  youth,  had  found  such  efficacy  in  his 
strong  desire,  that  he  ascended  from  earth  to  cloud,  and 
from  cloud  to  celestial  atmosphere,  to  win  the  Beautiful. 
This  case  of  ebony  the  artist  opened,  and  bade  Annie 
place  her  finger  on  its  edge.  She  did  so,  but  almost 
screamed,  as  a  butterfly  fluttered  forth,  and,  alighting 
on  her  finger's  tip,  sat  waving  the  ample  magnificence 
of  its  purple  and  gold-speckled  wings,  as  if  in  prelude 
to  a  flight.  It  is  impossible  to  express  by  words  the 
glory,  the  splendor,  the  delicate  gorgeousness,  which 
were  softened  into  the  beauty  of  this  object.  Nature's 
ideal  butterfly  was  here  realized  in  all  its  perfection ; 
not  in  the  pattern  of  such  faded  insects  as  flit  among 
earthly  flowers,  but  of  those  which  hover  across  the 
meads  of  Paradise,  for  child-angels  and  the  spirits  of 
departed  infants  to  disport  themselves  with.  The  rich 
down  was  visible  upon  its  wings ;  the  lustre  of  its  eyes 
seemed  instinct  with  spirit.  The  firelight  glimmered 
around  this  wonder  —  the  candles  gleamed  upon  it  — 
but  it  glistened  apparently  by  its  own  radiance,  and 
illuminated  the  finger  and  outstretched  hand  on  which 
it  rested,  with  a  white  gleam  like  that  of  precious  stones. 
In  its  perfect  beauty,  the  consideration  of  size  was 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   211 

entirely  lost.  Had  its  wings  overreached  the  firma- 
ment, the  mind  could  not  have  been  more  filled  or 
satisfied. 

"  Beautiful !  Beautiful !  "  exclaimed  Annie.  "  Is  it 
alive  ?  Is  it  alive  ? " 

"  Alive  ?  To  be  sure  it  is,"  answered  her  husband. 
"  Do  you  suppose  any  mortal  has  skill  enough  to 
make  a  butterfly,  —  or  would  put  himself  to  the 
trouble  of  making  one,  when  any  child  may  catch 
a  score  of  them  in  a  summer's  afternoon?  Alive? 
certainly !  But  this  pretty  box  is  undoubtedly  of  our 
friend  Owen's  manufacture;  and  really  it  does  him 
credit." 

At  this  moment  the  butterfly  waved  its  wings  anew, 
with  a  motion  so  absolutely  lifelike  that  Annie  was 
startled,  and  even  awe-stricken;  for,  in  spite  of  her 
husband's  opinion,  she  could  not  satisfy  herself  whether 
it  was  indeed  a  living  creature,  or  a  piece  of  wondrous 
mechanism. 

"Is  it  alive?"  she  repeated,  more  earnestly  than 
before. 

"  Judge  for  yourself,"  said  Owen  Warland,  who  stood 
gazing  in  her  face  with  fixed  attention. 

The  butterfly  now  flung  itself  upon  the  air,  fluttered 
round  Annie's  head,  and  soared  into  a  distant  region 
of  the  parlor,  still  making  itself  perceptible  to  sight  by 
the  starry  gleam  in  which  the  motion  of  its  wings  envel- 
oped it.  The  infant,  on  the  floor,  followed  its  course 
with  his  sagacious  little  eyes.  After  flying  about  the 
room,  it  returned,  in  a  spiral  curve,  and  settled  again  on 
Annie's  finger. 

"  But  is  it  alive  ? "  exclaimed  she  again ;  and  the 
finger,  on  which  the  gorgeous  mystery  had  alighted, 
was  so  tremulous  that  the  butterfly  was  forced  to  balance 
himself  with  his  wings.  "Tell  me  if  it  be  alive,  or 
whether  you  created  it  ?  " 

"  Wherefore  ask  who  created  it,  so  it  be  beautiful  ? " 
replied  Owen  Warland.  "  Alive  ?  Yes,  Annie ;  it  may 
well  be  said  to  possess  life,  for  it  has  absorbed  my  own 
being  into  itself ;  and  in  the  secret  of  that  butterfly,  and 


2i2    MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

in  its  beauty — which  is  not  merely  outward,  but  deep 
as  its  whole  system  —  is  represented  the  intellect,  the 
imagination,  the  sensibility,  the  soul,  of  an  Artist  of  the 
Beautiful !  Yes,  I  created  it.  But  "  —  and  here  his 
countenance  somewhat  changed  —  "this  butterfly  is  not 
now  to  me  what  it  was  when  I  beheld  it  afar  off,  in  the 
day-dreams  of  my  youth." 

"  Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  a  pretty  plaything,"  said  the 
blacksmith,  grinning  with  childlike  delight.  "  I  wonder 
whether  it  would  condescend  to  alight  on  such  a  great 
clumsy  finger  as  mine  ?  Hold  it  hither,  Annie  !  " 

By  the  artist's  direction,  Annie  touched  her  finger's 
tip  to  that  of  her  husband  ;  and,  after  a  momentary 
delay,  the  butterfly  fluttered  from  one  to  the  other.  It 
preluded  a  second  flight  by  a  similar,  yet  not  precisely 
the  same  waving  of  wings,  as  in  the  first  experiment. 
Then  ascending  from  the  blacksmith's  stalwart  finger, 
it  rose  in  a  gradually  enlarging  curve  to  the  ceiling, 
made  one  wide  sweep  around  the  room,  and  returned 
with  an  undulating  movement  to  the  point  whence  it  had 
started. 

"  Well,  that  does  beat  all  nature ! "  cried  Robert 
Danforth,  bestowing  the  heartiest  praise  that  he  could 
find  expression  for;  and,  indeed,  had  he  paused  there, 
a  man  of  finer  words  and  nicer  perception  could  not 
easily  have  said  more.  "That  goes  beyond  me,  I  con- 
fess !  But  what  then  ?  There  is  more  real  use  in  one 
downright  blow  of  my  sledge-hammer,  than  in  the  whole 
five  years'  labor  that  our  friend  Owen  has  wasted  on 
this  butterfly ! " 

Here  the  child  clapped  his  hands,  and  made  a  great 
babble  of  indistinct  utterance,  apparently  demanding 
that  the  butterfly  should  be  given  him  for  a  plaything. 

Owen  Warland,  meanwhile,  glanced  sidelong  at  Annie, 
to  discover  whether  she  sympathized  in  her  husband's 
estimate  of  the  comparative  value  of  the  Beautiful  and 
the  Practical.  There  was,  amid  all  her  kindness 
towards  himself,  amid  all  the  wonder  and  admiration 
with  which  she  contemplated  the  marvellous  work  of  his 
hands,  and  incarnation  of  his  idea,  a  secret  scorn  ;  too 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL   213 

secret,  perhaps,  for  her  own  consciousness,  and  percep- 
tible only  to  such  intuitive  discernment  as  that  of  the 
artist.  But  Owen,  in  the  latter  stages  of  his  pursuit, 
had  risen  out  of  the  region  in  which  such  a  discovery 
might  have  been  torture.  He  knew  that  the  world,  and 
Annie  as  the  representative  of  the  world,  whatever 
praise  might  be  bestowed,  could  never  say  the  fitting 
word,  nor  feel  the  fitting  sentiment,  which  should  be  the 
perfect  recompense  of  an  artist  who,  symbolizing  a  lofty 
moral  by  a  material  trifle  —  converting  what  was  earthly 
to  spiritual  gold  —  had  won  the  Beautiful  into  his  handi- 
work. Not  at  this  latest  moment  was  he  to  learn  that 
the  reward  of  all  high  performance  must  be  sought 
within  itself,  or  sought  in  vain.  There  was,  however,  a 
view  of  the  matter,  which  Annie,  and  her  husband,  and 
even  Peter  Hovenden,  might  fully  have  understood,  and 
which  would  have  satisfied  them  that  the  toil  of  years 
had  here  been  worthily  bestowed.  Owen  Warland 
might  have  told  them,  that  this  butterfly,  this  play- 
thing, this  bridal  gift  of  a  poor  watchmaker  to  a 
blacksmith's  wife,  was,  in  truth,  a  gem  of  art  that  a 
monarch  would  have  purchased  with  honors  and  abun- 
dant wealth,  and  have  treasured  it  among  the  jewels 
of  his  kingdom,  as  the  most  unique  and  wondrous  of 
them  all !  But  the  artist  smiled  and  kept  the  secret  to 
himself. 

"  Father,"  said  Annie,  thinking  that  a  word  of  praise 
from  the  old  watchmaker  might  gratify  his  former 
apprentice,  "  do  come  and  admire  this  pretty  butterfly  !  " 

"  Let  us  see,"  said  Peter  Hovenden,  rising  from  his 
chair,  with  a  sneer  upon  his  face  that  always  made 
people  doubt,  as  he  himself  did,  in  everything  but  a 
material  existence.  "  Here  is  my  finger  for  it  to  alight 
upon.  I  shall  understand  it  better  when  once  I  have 
touched  it." 

But,  to  the  increased  astonishment  of  Annie,  when 
the  tip  of  her  father's  finger  was  pressed  against  that  of 
her  husband,  on  which  the  butterfly  still  rested,  the 
insect  drooped  its  wings,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of 
falling  to  the  floor.  Even  the  bright  spots  of  gold  upon 


2i4    MOSSES   FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

its  wings  and  body,  unless  her  eyes  deceived  her,  grew 
dim,  and  the  glowing  purple  took  a  dusky  hue,  and  the 
starry  lustre  that  gleamed  around  the  blacksmith's  hand 
became  faint,  and  vanished. 

"It  is  dying !     It  is  dying !  "  cried  Annie,  in  alarm. 

"  It  has  been  delicately  wrought,"  said  the  artist, 
calmly.  "As  I  told  you,  it  has  imbibed  a  spiritual 
essence  —  call  it  magnetism,  or  what  you  will.  In  an 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  mockery,  its  exquisite  sus- 
ceptibility suffers  torture,  as  does  the  soul  of  him  who 
instilled  his  own  life  into  it.  It  has  already  lost  its 
beauty ;  in  a  few  moments  more,  its  mechanism  would 
be  irreparably  injured." 

"Take  away  your  hand,  father!"  entreated  Annie, 
turning  pale.  "  Here  is  my  child ;  let  it  rest  on  his 
innocent  hand.  There,  perhaps,  its  life  will  revive,  and 
its  colors  grow  brighter  than  ever." 

Her  father,  with  an  acrid  smile,  withdrew  his  finger. 
The  butterfly  then  appeared  to  recover  the  power  of 
voluntary  motion  ;  while  its  hues  assumed  much  of  their 
original  lustre  and  the  gleam  of  starlight,  which  was  its 
most  ethereal  attribute,  again  formed  a  halo  round  about 
it.  At  first,  when  transferred  from  Robert  Danforth's 
hand  to  the  small  finger  of  the  child,  this  radiance  grew 
so  powerful  that  it  positively  threw  the  little  fellow's 
shadow  back  against  the  wall.  He,  meanwhile,  extended 
his  plump  hand  as  he  had  seen  his  father  and  mother 
do,  and  watched  the  waving  of  the  insect's  wings  with 
infantine  delight.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  certain 
odd  expression  of  sagacity,  that  made  Owen  Warland 
feel  as  if  here  were  old  Peter  Hovenden,  partially,  and 
but  partially,  redeemed  from  his  hard  scepticism  into 
childish  faith. 

"  How  wise  the  little  monkey  looks !  "  whispered 
Robert  Danforth  to  his  wife. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  a  child's  face,"  answered 
Annie,  admiring  her  own  infant,  and  with  good  reason, 
far  more  than  the  artistic  butterfly.  "The  darling 
knows  more  of  the  mystery  than  we  do." 

As  if  the  butterfly,  like  the  artist,  were  conscious  of 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL    215 

something  not  entirely  congenial  in  the  child's  nature, 
it  alternately  sparkled  and  grew  dim.  At  length,  it 
arose  from  the  small  hand  of  the  infant  with  an  airy 
motion,  that  seemed  to  bear  it  upward  without  an 
effort;  as  if  the  ethereal  instincts,  with  which  its 
master's  spirit  had  endowed  it,  impelled  this  fair 
vision  involuntarily  to  a  higher  sphere.  Had  there 
been  no  obstruction,  it  might  have  soared  into  the  sky, 
and  grown  immortal.  But  its  lustre  gleamed  upon  the 
ceiling  ;  the  exquisite  texture  of  its  wings  brushed  against 
that  earthly  medium  ;  and  a  sparkle  or  two,  as  if  star- 
dust,  floated  downward  and  lay  glimmering  on  the  carpet. 
Then  the  butterfly  came  fluttering  down,  and,  instead  of 
returning  to  the  infant,  was  apparently  attracted  towards 
the  artist's  hand. 

"  Not  so,  not  so  ! "  murmured  Owen  Warland,  as  if 
his  handiwork  could  have  understood  him.  "  Thou  hast 
gone  forth  out  of  thy  master's  heart.  There  is  no  re- 
turn for  thee ! " 

With  a  wavering  movement,  and  emitting  a  tremulous 
radiance,,  the  butterfly  struggled,  as  it  were,  towards  the 
infant,  and  was  about  to  alight  upon  his  finger.  But, 
while  it  still  hovered  in  the  air,  the  little  Child  of 
Strength,  with  his  grandsire's  sharp  and  shrewd  ex- 
pression in  his  face,  made  a  snatch  at  the  marvellous 
insect,  and  compressed  it  in  his  hand.  Annie  screamed! 
Old  Peter  Hovenden  burst  into  a  cold  and  scornful  laugh. 
The  blacksmith,  by  main  force,  unclosed  the  infant's 
hand,  and  found  within  the  palm  a  small  heap  of  glit- 
tering fragments,  whence  the  Mystery  of  Beauty  had 
fled  forever.  And  as  for  Owen  Warland,  he  looked 
placidly  at  what  seemed  the  ruin  of  his  life's  labor,  and 
which  yet  was  no  ruin.  He  had  caught  a  far  other 
butterfly  than  this.  When  the  artist  rose  high  enough 
to  achieve  the  Beautiful,  the  symbol  by  which  he  made 
it  perceptible  to  mortal  senses  became  of  little  value  in 
his  eyes,  while  his  spirit  possessed  itself  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  reality. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION 

THE  other  day,  having  a  leisure  hour  at  my  dis- 
posal, I  stept  into  a  new  museum,  to  which  my 
notice  was  casually  drawn  by  a  small  and  unobtrusive 
sign  :  "  To  BE  SEEN  HERE,  A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION." 
Such  was  the  simple,  yet  not  altogether  unpromising 
announcement,  that  turned  my  steps  aside,  for  a  little 
while,  from  the  sunny  sidewalk  of  our  principal  thor- 
oughfare. Mounting  a  sombre  staircase,  I  pushed  open 
a  door  at  its  summit,  and  found  myself  in  the  presence 
of  a  person,  who  mentioned  the  moderate  sum  that 
would  entitle  me  to  admittance :  — 

"  Three  shillings,  Massachusetts  tenor,"  said  he ; 
"  no,  I  mean  half  a  dollar,  as  you  reckon  in  these 
days." 

While  searching  my  pocket  for  the  coin,  I  glanced  at 
the  door-keeper,  the  marked  character  and  individuality 
of  whose  aspect  encouraged  me  to  expect  something  not 
quite  in  the  ordinary  way.  He  wore  an  old-fashioned 
great-coat,  much  faded,  within  which  his  meagre  person 
was  so  completely  enveloped,  that  the  rest  of  his  attire 
was  undistinguishable.  But  his  visage  was  remarkably 
wind-flushed,  sun-burnt,  and  weather-worn,  and  had  a 
most  unquiet,  nervous,  and  apprehensive  expression. 
It  seemed  as  if  this  man  had  some  all-important  object 
in  view,  some  point  of  deepest  interest  to  be  decided, 
some  momentous  question  to  ask,  might  he  but  hope 
for  a  reply.  As  it  was  evident,  however,  that  I  could 
have  nothing  to  do  with  his  private  affairs,  I  passed 
through  an  open  doorway,  which  admitted  me  into  the 
extensive  hall  of  the  Museum. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  portal  was  the  bronze  statue 
of  a  youth  with  winged  feet.  He  was  represented  in 
the  act  of  flitting  away  from  earth,  yet  wore  such  a 

216 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       217 

look  of  earnest  invitation  that  it  impressed  me  like  a 
summons  to  enter  the  hall. 

"  It  is  the  original  statue  of  Opportunity,  by  the 
ancient  sculptor  Lysippus,"  said  a  gentleman  who  now 
approached  me ;  "I  place  it  at  the  entrance  of  my 
Museum,  because  it  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can 
gain  admittance  to  such  a  collection." 

The  speaker  was  a  middle-aged  person,  of  whom  it 
was  not  easy  to  determine  whether  he  had  spent  his 
life  as  a  scholar,  or  as  a  man  of  action;  in  truth,  all 
outward  and  obvious  peculiarities  had  been  worn  away 
by  an  extensive  and  promiscuous  intercourse  with  the 
world.  There  was  no  mark  about  him  of  profession, 
individual  habits,  or  scarcely  of  country  ;  although  his 
dark  complexion  and  high  features  made  me  conjecture 
that  he  was  a  native  of  some  southern  clime  of  Europe. 
At  all  events,  he  was  evidently  the  Virtuoso  in  person. 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  he,  "  as  we  have  no 
descriptive  catalogue,  I  will  accompany  you  through 
the  Museum,  and  point  out  whatever  may  be  most 
worthy  of  attention.  In  the  first  place,  here  is  a  choice 
collection  of  stuffed  animals." 

Nearest  the  door  stood  the  outward  semblance  of  a 
wolf,  exquisitely  prepared,  it  is  true,  and  showing  a 
very  wolfish  fierceness  in  the  large  glass  eyes,  which 
were  inserted  into  its  wild  and  crafty  head.  Still  it 
was  merely  the  skin  of  a  wolf,  with  nothing  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  other  individuals  of  that  unlovely 
breed. 

"  How  does  this  animal  deserve  a  place  in  your  col- 
lection ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  It  is  the  wolf  that  devoured  Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood,"  answered  the  Virtuoso;  "and  by  his  side, — 
with  a  milder  and  more  matronly  look,  as  you  per- 
ceive, —  stands  the  she-wolf  that  suckled  Romulus  and 
Remus." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  exclaimed  I.  "And  what  lovely 
lamb  is  this,  with  the  snow-white  fleece,  which  seems  to 
be  of  as  delicate  a  texture  as  innocence  itself  ?" 

"  Methinks  you  have  but  carelessly  read   Spenser," 


218    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

replied  my  guide,  "  or  you  would  at  once  recognize  the 
'  milk-white  lamb  '  which  Una  led.  But  I  set  no  great 
value  upon  the  lamb.  The  next  specimen  is  better 
worth  our  notice." 

"  What !  "  cried  I,  "  this  strange  animal,  with  the 
black  head  of  an  ox  upon  the  body  of  a  white  horse  ? 
Were  it  possible  to  suppose  it,  I  should  say  that  this 
was  Alexander's  steed  Bucephalus." 

"  The  same,"  said  the  Virtuoso.  "  And  can  you  like- 
wise give  a  name  to  the  famous  charger  that  stands 
beside  him  ? " 

Next  to  the  renowned  Bucephalus  stood  the  mere 
skeleton  of  a  horse,  with  the  white  bones  peeping 
through  his  ill-conditioned  hide.  But,  if  my  heart  had 
not  warmed  towards  that  pitiful  anatomy,  I  might  as 
well  have  quitted  the  Museum  at  once.  Its  rarities  had 
not  been  collected  with  pain  and  toil  from  the  four 
quarters  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
and  from  the  palaces  and  sepulchres  of  ages,  for  those 
who  could  mistake  this  illustrious  steed. 

"  It  is  Rosinante !  "  exclaimed  I,  with  enthusiasm. 

And  so  it  proved  !  My  admiration  for  the  noble  and 
gallant  horse  caused  me  to  glance  with  less  interest  at 
the  other  animals,  although  many  of  them  might  have 
deserved  the  notice  of  Cuvier  himself.  There  was  the 
donkey  which  Peter  Bell  cudgelled  so  soundly,  and  a 
brother  of  the  same  species,  who  had  suffered  a  similar 
infliction  from  the  ancient  prophet  Balaam.  Some  doubts 
were  entertained,  however,  as  to  the  authenticity  of  the 
latter  beast.  My  guide  pointed  out  the  venerable  Argus, 
that  faithful  dog  of  Ulysses,  and  also  another  dog  (for 
so  the  skin  bespoke  it),  which,  though  imperfectly  pre- 
served, seemed  once  to  have  had  three  heads.  It  was 
Cerberus.  I  was  considerably  amused  at  detecting,  in 
an  obscure  corner,  the  fox  that  became  so  famous  by  the 
loss  of  his  tail.  There  were  several  stuffed  cats,  which, 
as  a  dear  lover  of  that  comfortable  beast,  attracted  my 
affectionate  regards.  One  was  Dr.  Johnson's  cat  Hodge  ; 
and  in  the  same  row  stood  the  favorite  cats  of  Mahomet, 
Gray,  and  Walter  Scott,  together  with  Puss  in  Boots, 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       219 

and  a  cat  of  very  noble  aspect  who  had  once  been  a 
deity  of  ancient  Egypt.  Byron's  tame  bear  came  next. 
I  must  not  forget  to  mention  the  Erymanthian  boar,  the 
skin  of  St.  George's  Dragon,  and  that  of  the  serpent 
Python ;  and  another  skin,  with  beautifully  variegated 
hues,  supposed  to  have  been  the  garment  of  the  "  spirited 
Sly  Snake,"  which  tempted  Eve.  Against  the  walls  were 
suspended  the  horns  of  a  stag  that  Shakespeare  shot ; 
and  on  the  floor  lay  the  ponderous  shell  of  the  tortoise 
which  fell  upon  the  head  of  ^Eschylus.  In  one  row,  as 
natural  as  life,  stood  the  sacred  bull  Apis,  the  "  cow 
with  the  crumpled  horn,"  and  a  very  wild-looking  young 
heifer,  which  I  guessed  to  be  the  cow  that  jumped  over 
the  moon.  She  was  probably  killed  by  the  rapidity  of 
her  descent.  As  I  turned  away,  my  eyes  fell  upon  an 
indescribable  monster,  which  proved  to  be  a  griffin. 

"I  look  in  vain,"  observed  I,  "for  the  skin  of  an 
animal  which  might  well  deserve  the  closest  study  of  a 
naturalist, — the  winged  horse  Pegasus." 

"  He  is  not  yet  dead,"  replied  the  Virtuoso,  "but  he 
is  so  hard  ridden  by  many  young  gentlemen  of  the  day, 
that  I  hope  soon  to  add  his  skin  and  skeleton  to  my 
collection." 

We  now  passed  to  the  next  alcove  of  the  hall,  in 
which  was  a  multitude  of  stuffed  birds.  They  were 
very  prettily  arranged,  some  upon  the  branches  of  trees, 
others  brooding  upon  nests,  and  others  suspended  by 
wires  so  artificially  that  they  seemed  in  the  very  act  of 
flight.  Among  them  was  a  white  dove,  with  a  withered 
branch  of  olive  leaves  in  her  mouth. 

"  Can  this  be  the  very  dove,"  inquired  I,  "  that  brought 
the  message  of  peace  and  hope  to  the  tempest-beaten 
passengers  of  the  ark  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  said  my  companion. 

"And  this  raven,  I  suppose,"  continued  I,  "is  the 
same  that  fed  Elijah  in  the  wilderness." 

"  The  raven  ?  —  no,"  said  the  Virtuoso,  "it  is  a  bird  of 
modern  date.  He  belonged  to  one  Barnaby  Rudge; 
and  many  people  fancied  that  the  devil  himself  was  dis- 
guised under  his  sable  plumage.  But  poor  Grip  has 


220    MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

drawn  his  last  cork,  and  has  been  forced  to  '  say  die '  at 
last.  This  other  raven,  hardly  less  curious,  is  that  in 
which  the  soul  of  King  George  the  First  revisited  his 
lady  love,  the  Duchess  of  Kendall." 

My  guide  next  pointed  out  Minerva's  owl,  and  the 
vulture  that  preyed  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus. 
There  was  likewise  the  sacred  Ibis  of  Egypt,  and  one 
of  the  Stymphalides,  which  Hercules  shot  in  his  sixth 
labor.  Shelley's  sky-lark,  Bryant's  water-fowl,  and  a 
pigeon  from  the  belfry  of  the  Old  South  Church,  pre- 
served by  N.  P.  Willis,  were  placed  on  the  same  perch. 
I  could  not  but  shudder  on  beholding  Coleridge's  alba- 
tross, transfixed  with  the  Ancient  Mariner's  crossbow 
shaft.  Beside  this  bird  of  awful  poesy  stood  a  gray 
goose  of  very  ordinary  aspect. 

"  Stuffed  goose  is  no  such  rarity,"  observed  I.  "  Why 
do  you  preserve  such  a  specimen  in  your  Museum  ? " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  flock  whose  cackling  saved  the 
Roman  Capitol,"  answered  the  Virtuoso.  "  Many  geese 
have  cackled  and  hissed,  both  before  and  since ;  but 
none,  like  those,  have  clamored  themselves  into  immor- 
tality." 

There  seemed  to  be  little  else  that  demanded  notice 
in  this  department  of  the  Museum,  unless  we  except 
Robinson  Crusoe's  parrot,  a  live  phoenix,  a  footless  bird 
of  Paradise,  and  a  splendid  peacock,  supposed  to  be  the 
same  that  once  contained  the  soul  of  Pythagoras.  I 
therefore  passed  to  the  next  alcove,  the  shelves  of  which 
were  covered  with  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  curiosi- 
ties, such  as  are  usually  found  in  similar  establishments. 
One  of  the  first  things  that  took  my  eye  was  a  strange- 
looking  cap,  woven  of  some  substance  that  appeared  to 
be  neither  woollen,  cotton,  nor  linen. 

"  Is  this  a  magician's  cap  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  Virtuoso,  "  it  is  merely  Dr.  Frank- 
lin's cap  of  asbestos.  But  here  is  one  which,  perhaps, 
may  suit  you  better.  It  is  the  wishing-cap  of  Fortunatus. 
Will  you  try  it  on  ? " 

"By  no  means,"  answered  I,  putting  it  aside  with 
my  hand.  "The  day  of  wild  wishes  is  past  with  me. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       221 

I  desire  nothing  that  may  not  come  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  Providence." 

"  Then,  probably,"  returned  the  Virtuoso,  "  you  will 
not  be  tempted  to  rub  this  lamp  ?  " 

While  speaking,  he  took  from  the  shelf  an  antique 
brass  lamp,  curiously  wrought  with  embossed  figures, 
but  so  covered  with  verdigris  that  the  sculpture  was 
almost  eaten  away. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  years,"  said  he,  "  since  the  genius 
of  this  lamp  constructed  Aladdin's  palace  in  a  single 
night.  But  he  still  retains  his  power ;  and  the  man 
who  rubs  Aladdin's  lamp,  has  but  to  desire  either  a 
palace  or  a  cottage." 

"  I  might  desire  a  cottage,"  replied  I, "  but  I  would  have 
it  founded  on  sure  and  stable  truth,  not  on  dreams  and  fan- 
tasies. I  have  learned  to  look  for  the  real  and  the  true." 

My  guide  next  showed  me  Prospero's  magic  wand, 
broken  into  three  fragments  by  the  hand  of  its  mighty 
master.  On  the  same  shelf  lay  the  gold  ring  of  ancient 
Gyges,  which  enabled  the  wearer  to  walk  invisible.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  alcove  was  a  tall  looking-glass  in  a 
frame  of  ebony,  but  veiled  with  a  curtain  of  purple  silk, 
through  the  rents  of  which  the  gleam  of  the  mirror  was 
perceptible. 

"This  is  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  glass,"  observed 
the  Virtuoso.  "  Draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  picture  any 
human  form  within  your  mind,  and  it  will  be  reflected 
in  the  mirror." 

"  It  is  enough  if  I  can  picture  it  within  my  mind," 
answered  I.  "  Why  should  I  wish  it  to  be  repeated  in 
the  mirror  ?  But,  indeed,  these  works  of  magic  have 
grown  wearisome  to  me.  There  are  so  many  greater 
wonders  in  the  world,  to  those  who  keep  their  eyes  open, 
and  their  sight  undimmed  by  custom,  that  all  the  delu- 
sions of  the  old  sorcerers  seem  flat  and  stale.  Unless 
you  can  show  me  something  really  curious,  I  care  not  to 
look  further  into  your  Museum." 

"  Ah,  well,  then,"  said  the  Virtuoso,  composedly, 
"  perhaps  you  may  deem  some  of  my  antiquarian  rarities 
deserving  of  a  glance." 


222    MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

He  pointed  out  the  Iron  Mask,  now  corroded  with 
rust ;  and  my  heart  grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  this  dread- 
ful relic,  which  had  shut  out  a  human  being  from  sym- 
pathy with  his  race.  There  was  nothing  half  so  terrible 
in  the  axe  that  beheaded  King  Charles,  nor  in  the  dag- 
ger that  slew  Henry  of  Navarre,  nor  in  the  arrow  that 
pierced  the  heart  of  William  Rufus,  —  all  of  which  were 
shown  to  me.  Many  of  the  articles  derived  their  inter- 
est, such  as  it  was,  from  having  been  formerly  in  the 
possession  of  royalty.  For  instance,  here  was  Charle- 
magne's sheepskin  cloak,  the  flowing  wig  of  Louis 
Quatorze,  the  spinriing-wheel  of  Sardanapalus,  and  King 
Stephen's  famous  breeches,  which  cost  him  but  a  crown. 
The  heart  of  the  Bloody  Mary,  with  the  word  "  Calais  " 
worn  into  its  diseased  substance,  was  preserved  in  a 
bottle  of  spirits ;  and  near  it  lay  the  golden  case  in  which 
the  queen  of  Gustavus  Adolphus  treasured  up  that  hero's 
heart.  Among  these  relics  and  heirlooms  of  kings,  I 
must  not  forget  the  long,  hairy  ears  of  Midas,  and  a 
piece  of  bread  which  had  been  changed  to  gold  by  the 
touch  of  that  unlucky  monarch.  And  as  Grecian  Helen 
was  a  queen,  it  may  here  be  mentioned,  that  I  was  per- 
mitted to  take  into  my  hand  a  lock  of  her  golden  hair, 
and  the  bowl  which  a  sculptor  modelled  from  the  curve 
of  her  perfect  breast.  Here,  likewise,  was  the  robe 
that  smothered  Agamemnon,  Nero's  fiddle,  the  Czar 
Peter's  brandy-bottle,  the  crown  of  Semiramis,  and  Ca- 
nute's sceptre,  which  he  extended  over  the  sea.  That 
my  own  land  may  not  deem  itself  neglected,  let  me 
add,  that  I  was  favored  with  a  sight  of  the  skull  of  King 
Philip,, the  famous  Indian  chief,  whose  head  the  Puritans 
smote  off  and  exhibited  upon  a  pole. 

"  Show  me  something  else,"  said  I  to  the  Virtuoso. 
"  Kings  are  in  such  an  artificial  position,  that  people  in 
the  ordinary  walks  of  life  cannot  feel  an  interest  in  their 
relics.  If  you  could  show  me  the  straw  hat  of  sweet 
little  Nell,  I  would  far  rather  see  it  than  a  king's  golden 
crown." 

"  There  it  is,"  said  my  guide,  pointing  carelessly  with 
his  staff  to  the  straw  hat  in  question.  "  But,  indeed, 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION      223 

you  are  hard  to  please.  Here  are  the  seven-leagued 
boots.  Will  you  try  them  on  ? " 

"  Our  modern  railroads  have  superseded  their  use," 
answered  I ;  "  and  as  to  these  cow-hide  boots,  I  could 
show  you  quite  as  curious  a  pair  at  the  transcendental 
community  in  Roxbury." 

We  next  examined  a  collection  of  swords  and  other 
weapons,  belonging  to  different  epochs,  but  thrown 
together  without  much  attempt  at  arrangement.  Here 
was  Arthur's  sword  Excalibar,  and  that  of  the  Cid  Cam- 
peodor,  and  the  sword  of  Brutus  rusted  with  Caesar's 
blood  and  his  own,  and  the  sword  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and 
that  of  Horatius,  and  that  with  which  Virginius  slew  his 
daughter,  and  the  one  which  Dionysius  suspended  over 
the  head  of  Damocles.  Here,  also,  was  Arria's  sword, 
which  she  plunged  into  her  own  breast,  in  order  to  taste 
of  death  before  her  husband.  The  crooked  blade  of 
Saladin's  scimetar  next  attracted  my  notice.  I  know 
not  by  what  chance,  but  so  it  happened,  that  the  sword 
of  one  of  our  own  militia  generals  was  suspended  be- 
tween Don  Quixote's  lance  and  the  brown  blade  of 
Hudibras.  My  heart  throbbed  high  at  the  sight  of  the 
helmet  of  Miltiades,  and  the  spear  that  was  broken  in 
the  breast  of  Epaminondas.  I  recognized  the  shield  of 
Achilles  by  its  resemblance  to  the  admirable  cast  in  the 
possession  of  Professor  Felton.  Nothing  in  this  apart- 
ment interested  me  more  than  Major  Pitcairn's  pistol,  the 
discharge  of  which,  at  Lexington,  began  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  and  was  reverberated  in  thunder  around 
the  land  for  seven  long  years.  The  bow  of  Ulysses, 
though  unstrung  for  ages,  was  placed  against  the  wall, 
together  with  a  sheaf  of  Robin  Hood's  arrows,  and  the 
rifle  of  Daniel  Boone. 

"  Enough  of  weapons,"  said  I,  at  length  ;  "  although  I 
would  gladly  have  seen  the  sacred  shield  which  fell  from 
Heaven  in  the  time  of  Numa.  And  surely  you  should 
obtain  the  sword  which  Washington  unsheathed  at 
Cambridge.  But  the  collection  does  you  much  credit. 
Let  us  pass  on." 

In  the  next  alcove  we  saw  the  golden  thigh  of  Pythago- 


224    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

ras,  which  had  so  divine  a  meaning  ;  and,  by  one  of 
the  queer  analogies  to  which  the  Virtuoso  seemed  to 
be  addicted,  this  ancient  emblem  lay  on  the  same  shelf 
with  Peter  Stuyvesant's  wooden  leg,  that  was  fabled  to 
be  of  silver.  Here  was  a  remnant  of  the  Golden  Fleece ; 
and  a  sprig  of  yellow  leaves  that  resembled  the  foliage  of 
a  frost-bitten  elm,  but  was  duly  authenticated  as  a  portion 
of  the  golden  branch  by  which  ^Eneas  gained  admit- 
tance to  the  realm  of  Pluto.  Atalanta's  golden  apple, 
and  one  of  the  apples  of  discord,  were  wrapt  in  the 
napkin  of  gold  which  Rampsinitus  brought  from  Hades  ; 
and  the  whole  were  deposited  in  the  golden  vase  of  Bias, 
with  its  inscription  :  "To  THE  WISEST." 

"  And  how  did  you  obtain  this  vase  ? "  said  I  to  the 
Virtuoso. 

"  It  was  given  me  long  ago,"  replied  he,  with  a  scorn- 
ful expression  in  his  eye,  "because  I  had  learned  to 
despise  all  things." 

It  had  not  escaped  me  that,  though  the  Virtuoso  was 
evidently  a  man  of  high  cultivation,  yet  he  seemed  to 
lack  sympathy  with  the  spiritual,  the  sublime,  and  the 
tender.  Apart  from  the  whim  that  had  led  him  to  de- 
vote so  much  time,  pains,  and  expense  to  the  collection 
of  this  Museum,  he  impressed  me  as  one  of  the  hardest 
and  coldest  men  of  the  world  whom  I  had  ever  met. 

"  To  despise  all  things  !  "  repeated  I.  "  This,  at  best, 
is  the  wisdom  of  the  understanding.  It  is  the  creed  of 
a  man  whose  soul, — whose  better  and  diviner  part, — 
has  never  been  awakened,  or  has  died  out  of  him." 

"  I  did  not  think  that  you  were  still  so  young,"  said 
the  Virtuoso.  "  Should  you  live  to  my  years,  you  will 
acknowledge  that  the  vase  of  Bias  was  not  ill  bestowed." 

Without  further  discussion  of  the  point,  he  directed 
my  attention  to  other  curiosities.  I  examined  Cinder- 
ella's little  glass  slipper,  and  compared  it  with  one  of 
Diana's  sandals,  and  with  Fanny  Elssler's  shoe,  which 
bore  testimony  to  the  muscular  character  of  her  illustri- 
ous foot.  On  the  same  shelf  were  Thomas  the  Rhymer's 
green  velvet  shoes,  and  the  brazen  shoe  of  Empedocles, 
which  was  thrown  out  of  Mount  y£tna.  Anacreon's 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION      225 

drinking-cup  was  placed  in  apt  juxtaposition  with  one 
of  Tom  Moore's  wine-glasses  and  Circe's  magic  bowl. 
These  were  symbols  of  luxury  and  riot ;  but  near  them 
stood  the  cup  whence  Socrates  drank  his  hemlock ;  and 
that  which  Sir  Philip  Sydney  put  from  his  death-parched 
lips  to  bestow  the  draught  upon  a  dying  soldier.  Next 
appeared  a  cluster  of  tobacco  pipes,  consisting  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh's,  the  earliest  on  record,  Dr.  Parr's, 
Charles  Lamb's,  and  the  first  calumet  of  peace  which 
was  ever  smoked  between  a  European  and  an  Indian. 
Among  other  musical  instruments,  I  noticed  the  lyre  of 
Orpheus,  and  those  of  Homer  and  Sappho,  Dr.  Frank- 
lin's famous  whistle,  the  trumpet  of  Anthony  Van 
Corlear,  and  the  flute  which  Goldsmith  played  upon  in 
his  rambles  through  the  French  provinces.  The  staff 
of  Peter  the  Hermit  stood  in  a  corner,  with  that  of  good 
old  Bishop  Jewel,  and  one  of  ivory,  which  had  belonged 
to  Papirius,  the  Roman  Senator.  The  ponderous  club 
of  Hercules  was  close  at  hand.  The  Virtuoso  showed 
me  the  chisel  of  Phidias,  Claude's  palette,  and  the  brush 
of  Apelles,  observing  that  he  intended  to  bestow  the 
former  either  on  Greenough,  Crawford,  or  Powers,  and 
the  two  latter  upon  Washington  Allston.  There  was  a 
small  vase  of  oracular  gas  from  Delphos,  which,  I  trust, 
will  be  submitted  to  the  scientific  analysis  of  Professor 
Silliman.  I  was  deeply  moved  on  beholding  a  phial  of 
the  tears  into  which  Niobe  was  dissolved ;  nor  less  so 
on  learning  that  a  shapeless  fragment  of  salt  was  a 
relic  of  that  victim  of  despondency  and  sinful  regrets, 
Lot's  wife.  My  companion  appeared  to  set  great  value 
upon  some  Egyptian  darkness  in  a  blacking  jug.  Sev- 
eral of  the  shelves  were  covered  by  a  collection  of  coins ; 
among  which,  however,  I  remember  none  but  the 
Splendid  Shilling,  celebrated  by  Phillips,  and  a  dollar's 
worth  of  the  iron  money  of  Lycurgus,  weighing  about 
fifty  pounds. 

Walking  carelessly  onward,  I  had  nearly  fallen  over 
a  huge  bundle,  like  a  pedlar's  pack,  done  up  in  sack- 
cloth, and  very  securely  strapped  and  corded. 

"  It  is  Christian's  burthen  of  sin,"  said  the  Virtuoso. 


226   MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"  Oh,  pray  let  us  open  it !  "  cried  I.  "  For  many  a 
year  I  have  longed  to  know  its  contents." 

"  Look  into  your  own  consciousness  and  memory," 
replied  the  Virtuoso.  "You  will  there  find  a  list  of 
whatever  it  contains." 

As  this  was  an  undeniable  truth,  I  threw  a  melan- 
choly look  at  the  burthen,  and  passed  on.  A  collection 
of  old  garments,  hanging  on  pegs,  was  worthy  of  some 
attention,  especially  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  Caesar's  mantle, 
Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors,  the  Vicar  of  Bray's  cassock, 
Goldsmith's  peach-bloom  suit,  a  pair  of  President  Jef- 
ferson's scarlet  breeches,  John  Randolph's  red  baize 
hunting-shirt,  the  drab  small-clothes  of  the  Stout  Gentle- 
man, and  the  rags  of  the  "  man  all  tattered  and  torn." 
George  Fox's  hat  impressed  me  with  deep  reverence,  as 
a  relic  of  perhaps  the  truest  apostle  that  has  appeared 
on  earth  for  these  eighteen  hundred  years.  My  eye 
was  next  attracted  by  an  old  pair  of  shears,  which  I 
should  have  taken  for  a  memorial  of  some  famous  tailor, 
only  that  the  Virtuoso  pledged  his  veracity  that  they 
were  the  identical  scissors  of  Atropos.  He  also  showed 
me  a  broken  hour-glass,  which  had  been  thrown  aside 
by  Father  Time,  together  with  the  old  gentleman's  gray 
forelock,  tastefully  braided  into  a  brooch.  In  the  hour- 
glass was  the  handful  of  sand,  the  grains  of  which  had 
numbered  the  years  of  the  Cumasan  Sibyl.  I  think  it 
was  in  this  alcove  that  I  saw  the  inkstand  which  Luther 
threw  at  the  Devil,  and  the  ring  which  Essex,  while 
under  sentence  of  death,  sent  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  And 
here  was  the  blood-incrusted  pen  of  steel  with  which 
Faust  signed  away  his  salvation. 

The  Virtuoso  now  opened  the  door  of  a  closet,  and 
showed  me  a  lamp  burning,  while  three  others  stood 
unlighted  by  its  side.  One  of  the  three  was  the  lamp 
of  Diogenes,  another  that  of  Guy  Faux,  and  the  third 
that  which  Hero  set  forth  to  the  midnight  breeze  in 
the  high  tower  of  Abydos. 

"  See !  "  said  the  Virtuoso,  blowing  with  all  his  force 
at  the  lighted  lamp. 

The  flame  quivered  and  shrank  away  from  his  breath, 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION      227 

but  clung  to  the  wick,  and  resumed  its  brilliancy  as 
soon  as  the  blast  was  exhausted. 

"  It  is  an  undying  lamp  from  the  tomb  of  Charle- 
magne," observed  my  guide.  "  That  flame  was  kindled 
a  thousand  years  ago." 

"  How  ridiculous  to  kindle  an  unnatural  light  in 
tombs  !  "  exclaimed  I.  "  We  should  seek  to  behold  the 
dead  in  the  light  of  Heaven.  But  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  chafing-dish  of  glowing  coals  ?  " 

"That,"  answered  the  Virtuoso,  "is  the  original  fire 
which  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven.  Look  stead- 
fastly into  it,  and  you  will  discern  another  curi- 
osity." 

Tgazed  into  that  fire,  —  which,  symbolically,  was  the 
origin  of  all  that  was  bright  and  glorious  in  the  soul  of 
man,  —  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  behold !  a  little  reptile, 
sporting  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  fervid  heat.  It 
was  a  salamander. 

"What  a  sacrilege!  "  cried  I,  with  inexpressible  dis- 
gust. "  Can  you  find  no  better  use  for  this  ethereal  fire 
than  to  cherish  a  loathsome  reptile  in  it?  Yet  there  are 
men  who  abuse  the  sacred  fire  of  their  own  souls  to  as 
foul  and  guilty  a  purpose." 

The  Virtuoso  made  no  answer,  except  by  a  dry  laugh, 
and  an  assurance  that  the  salamander  was  the  very  same 
which  Benvenuto  Cellini  had  seen  in  his  father's  house- 
hold fire.  He  then  proceeded  to  show  me  other  rarities ; 
for  this  closet  appeared  to  be  the  receptacle  of  what  he 
considered  most  valuable  in  his  collection. 

"There,"  said  he,  "is  the  great  carbuncle  of  the 
White  Mountains." 

I  gazed  with  no  little  interest  at  this  mighty  gem, 
which  it  had  been  one  of  the  wild  projects  of  my  youth 
to  discover.  Possibly  it  might  have  looked  brighter  to 
me  in  those  days  than  now ;  at  all  events,  it  had  not 
such  brilliancy  as  to  detain  me  long  from  the  other 
articles  of  the  Museum.  The  Virtuoso  pointed  to  me 
a  crystalline  stone,  which  hung  by  a  gold  chain  against 
the  wall. 

"  That  is  the  Philosopher's  Stone,"  said  he. 


228    MOSSES    FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

"And  have  you  the  Elixir  Vitae,  which  generally 
accompanies  it?"  inquired  I. 

"Even  so  —  this  urn  is  filled  with  it,"  he  replied. 
"A  draught  would  refresh  you.  Here  is  Hebe's  cup, 
—  will  you  quaff  a  health  from  it  ?  " 

My  heart  thrilled  within  me  at  the  idea  of  such  a 
reviving  draught;  for  methought  I  had  great  need  of 
it,  after  travelling  so  far  on  the  dusty  road  of  life. 
But  I  know  not  whether  it  were  a  peculiar  glance  in 
the  Virtuoso's  eye,  or  the  circumstance  that  this  most 
precious  liquid  was  contained  in  an  antique  sepulchral 
urn,  that  made  me  pause.  Then  came  many  a  thought, 
with  which,  in  the  calmer  and  better  hours  of  life,  I 
had  strengthened  myself  to  feel  that  Death  is  the  very 
friend  whom,  in  his  due  season,  even  the  happiest  mor- 
tal should  be  willing  to  embrace. 

"  No,  I  desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,"  said  I. 
"Were  man  to  live  longer  on  the  earth,  the  spiritual 
would  die  out  of  him.  The  spark  of  ethereal  fire 
would  be  choked  by  the  material,  the  sensual.  There 
is  a  celestial  something  within  us  that  requires,  after  a 
certain  time,  the  atmosphere  of  Heaven  to  preserve  it 
from  decay  and  ruin.  I  will  have  none  of  this  liquid. 
You  do  well  to  keep  it  in  a  sepulchral  urn ;  for  it  would 
produce  death,  while  bestowing  the  shadow  of  life." 

"  All  this  is  unintelligible  to  me,"  responded  my  guide, 
with  indifference.  "  Life  —  earthly  life  —  is  the  only 
good.  But  you  refuse  the  draught  ?  Well,  it  is  not 
likely  to  be  offered  twice  within  one  man's  experience. 
Probably  you  have  griefs  which  you  seek  to  forget  in 
death.  I  can  enable  you  to  forget  them  in  life.  Will 
you  take  a  draught  of  Lethe  ?" 

As  he  spoke  the  Virtuoso  took  from  the  shelf  a  crys- 
tal vase  containing  a  sable  liquor,  which  caught  no  re- 
flected image  from  the  objects  around. 

"  Not  for  the  world ! "  exclaimed  I,  shrinking  back. 
"  I  can  spare  none  of  my  recollections,  —  not  even  those 
of  error  or  sorrow.  They  are  all  alike  the  food  of  my 
spirit  As  well  never  to  have  lived,  as  to  lose  them 
now." 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       229 

Without  further  parley  we  passed  to  the  next  alcove, 
the  shelves  of  which  were  burthened  with  ancient  vol- 
umes, and  with  those  rolls  of  papyrus,  in  which  was 
treasured  up  the  eldest  wisdom  of  the  earth.  Perhaps 
the  most  valuable  work  in  the  collection,  to  a  biblio- 
maniac, was  the  Book  of  Hermes.  For  my  part,  how- 
ever, I  would  have  given  a  higher  price  for  those  six  of 
the  Sibyl's  books  which  Tarquin  refused  to  purchase,  and 
which  the  Virtuoso  informed  me  he  had  himself  found 
in  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Doubtless  these  old  volumes 
contain  prophecies  of  the  fate  of  Rome,  both  as  respects 
the  decline  and  fall  of  her  temporal  empire,  and  the  rise 
of  her  spiritual  one.  Not  without  value,  likewise,  was 
the  work  of  Anaxagoras  on  Nature,  hitherto  supposed 
to  be  irrecoverably  lost ;  and  the  missing  treatises  of 
Longinus,  by  which  modern  criticism  might  profit ;  and 
those  books  of  Livy,  for  which  the  classic  student  has 
so  long  sorrowed  without  hope.  Among  these  precious 
tomes  I  observed  the  original  manuscript  of  the  Koran, 
and  also  that  of  the  Mormon  Bible,  in  Joe  Smith's 
authentic  autograph.  Alexander's  copy  of  the  Iliad 
was  also  there,  enclosed  in  the  jewelled  casket  of  Darius, 
still  fragrant  of  the  perfumes  which  the  Persian  kept 
in  it. 

Opening  an  iron-clasped  volume,  bound  in  black 
leather,  I  discovered  it  to  be  Cornelius  Agrippa's  book 
of  magic ;  and  it  was  rendered  still  more  interesting  by 
the  fact  that  many  flowers,  ancient  and  modern,  were 
pressed  between  its  leaves.  Here  was  a  rose  from  Eve's 
bridal  bower,  and  all  those  red  and  white  roses  which 
were  plucked  in  the  garden  of  the  Temple,  by  the 
partisans  of  York  and  Lancaster.  Here  was  Halleck's 
Wild  Rose  of  Alloway.  Cowper  had  contributed  a 
Sensitive  Plant,  and  Wordsworth  an  Eglantine,  and 
Burns  a  Mountain  Daisy,  and  Kirke  White  a  Star  of 
Bethlehem,  and  Longfellow  a  Sprig  of  Fennel,  with  its 
yellow  flowers.  James  Russell  Lowell  had  given  a 
Pressed  Flower,  but  fragrant  still,  which  had  been 
shadowed  in  the  Rhine.  There  was  also  a  sprig  from 
Southey's  Holly-Tree.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  sped- 


230    MOSSES   FROM   AN   OLD    MANSE 

mens  was  a  Fringed  Gentian,  which  had  been  plucked 
and  preserved  for  immortality  by  Bryant.  From  Jones 
Very,  —  a  poet  whose  voice  is  scarcely  heard  among  us, 
by  reason  of  its  depth,  —  there  was  a  Wind  Flower  and 
a  Columbine. 

As  I  closed  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  volume,  an 
old,  mildewed  letter  fell  upon  the  floor;  it  proved  to 
be  an  autograph  from  the  Flying  Dutchman  to  his  wife. 
I  could  linger  no  longer  among  books,  for  the  afternoon 
was  waning,  and  there  was  yet  much  to  see.  The  bare 
mention  of  a  few  more  curiosities  must  suffice.  The 
immense  skull  of  Polyphemus  was  recognizable  by  the 
cavernous  hollow  in  the  centre  of  the  forehead,  where 
once  had  blazed  the  giant's  single  eye.  The  tub  of 
Diogenes,  Medea's  caldron,  and  Psyche's  vase  of 
beauty,  were  placed  one  within  another.  Pandora's 
box,  without  the  lid,  stood  next,  containing  nothing  but 
the  girdle  of  Venus,  which  had  been  carelessly  flung 
into  it.  A  bundle  of  birch  rods,  which  had  been  used 
by  Shenstone's  school-mistress,  were  tied  up  with  the 
Countess  of  Salisbury's  garter.  I  knew  not  which  to 
value  most,  a  Roc's  egg,  as  big  as  an  ordinary  hogs- 
head, or  the  shell  of  the  egg  which  Columbus  set  upon 
its  end.  Perhaps  the  most  delicate  article  in  the  whole 
Museum  was  Queen  Mab's  chariot,  which,  to  guard  it 
from  the  touch  of  meddlesome  fingers,  was  placed  under 
a  glass  tumbler. 

Several  of  the  shelves  were  occupied  by  specimens  of 
entomology.  Feeling  but  little  interest  in  the  science, 
I  noticed  only  Anacreon's  Grasshopper,  and  an  Humble- 
Bee,  which  had  been  presented  to  the  Virtuoso  by  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson. 

In  the  part  of  the  hall  which  we  had  now  reached,  I 
observed  a  curtain  that  descended  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor  in  voluminous  folds,  of  a  depth,  richness,  and 
magnificence  which  I  had  never  seen  equalled.  It  was 
not  to  be  doubted  that  this  splendid,  though  dark  and 
solemn,  veil  concealed  a  portion  of  the  Museum  even 
richer  in  wonders  than  that  through  which  I  had  already 
passed.  But,  on  my  attempting  to  grasp  the  edge  of 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       231 

the  curtain  and  draw  it  aside,  it  proved  to  be  an  illusive 
picture. 

"You  need  not  blush,"  remarked  the  Virtuoso,  "for 
that  same  curtain  deceived  Zeuxis.  It  is  the  celebrated 
painting  of  Parrhasius." 

In  a  range  with  the  curtain,  there  were  a  number  of 
other  choice  pictures,  by  artists  of  ancient  days.  Here 
was  the  famous  Cluster  of  Grapes  by  Zeuxis,  so  admir- 
ably depicted  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  ripe  juice  were 
bursting  forth.  As  to  the  picture  of  the  Old  Woman, 
by  the  same  illustrious  painter,  and  which  was  so  ludi- 
crous that  he  himself  died  with  laughing  at  it,  I  cannot 
say  that  it  particularly  moved  my  risibility.  Ancient 
humor  seems  to  have  little  power  over  modern  muscles. 
Here,  also,  was  the  Horse,  painted  by  Apelles,  which 
living  horses  neighed  at ;  his  first  portrait  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  and  his  last  unfinished  picture  of  Venus  Asleep. 
Each  of  these  works  of  art,  together  with  others  by  Par- 
rhasius, Timanthes,  Polygnotus,  Apollodorus,  Pausias, 
and  Pamphilus,  required  more  time  and  study  than  I 
could  bestow,  for  the  adequate  perception  of  their  merits. 
I  shall  therefore  leave  them  undescribed  and  uncriticised, 
nor  attempt  to  settle  the  question  of  superiority  between 
ancient  and  modern  art. 

For  the  same  reason  I  shall  pass  lightly  over  the 
specimens  of  antique  sculpture,  which  this  indefatigable 
and  fortunate  Virtuoso  had  dug  out  of  the  dust  of  fallen 
empires.  Here  was  Action's  cedar  statue  of  yEsculapius, 
much  decayed,  and  Alcon's  iron  statue  of  Hercules, 
lamentably  rusted.  Here  was  the  statue  of  Victory,  six 
feet  high,  which  the  Jupiter  Olympus  of  Phidias  had 
held  in  his  hand.  Here  was  a  forefinger  of  the  Colossus 
of  Rhodes,  seven  feet  in  length.  Here  was  the  Venus 
Urania  of  Phidias,  and  other  images  of  male  and  female 
beauty  or  grandeur,  wrought  by  sculptors  who  appear 
never  to  have  debased  their  souls  by  the  sight  of  any 
meaner  forms  than  those  of  gods,  or  godlike  mortals. 
But  the  deep  simplicity  of  these  great  works  was  not  to 
be  comprehended  by  a  mind  excited  and  disturbed,  as 
mine  was,  by  the  various  objects  that  had  recently  been 


232    MOSSES    FROM    AN    OLD    MANSE 

presented  to  it.  I  therefore  turned  away,  with  merely 
a  passing  glance,  resolving,  on  some  future  occasion,  to 
brood  over  each  individual  statue  and  picture,  until  my 
inmost  spirit  should  feel  their  excellence.  In  this  de- 
partment, again,  I  noticed  the  tendency  to  whimsical 
combinations  and  ludicrous  analogies,  which  seemed  to 
influence  many  of  the  arrangements  of  the  Museum. 
The  wooden  statue,  so  well  known  as  the  Palladium  of 
Troy,  was  placed  in  close  apposition  with  the  wooden 
head  of  General  Jackson,  which  was  stolen  a  few  years 
since  from  the  bows  cf  the  Constitution. 

We  had  now  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spacious 
hall,  and  found  ourselves  again  near  the  door.  Feeling 
somewhat  wearied  with  the  survey  of  so  many  novelties 
and  antiquities,  I  sat  down  upon  Cowper's  sofa,  while 
the  Virtuoso  threw  himself  carelessly  into  Rabelais's 
easy-chair.  Casting  my  eyes  upon  the  opposite  wall,  I 
was  surprised  to  perceive  the  shadow  of  a  man,  flicker- 
ing unsteadily  across  the  wainscot,  and  looking  as  if  it 
were  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air  that  found  its  way 
through  the  door  or  windows.  No  substantial  figure  was 
visible,  from  which  this  shadow  might  be  thrown ;  nor, 
had  there  been  such,  was  there  any  sunshine  that  would 
have  caused  it  to  darken  upon  the  wall. 

"  It  is  Peter  Schlemihl's  shadow,"  observed  the  Vir- 
tuoso, "and  one  of  the  most  valuable  articles  in  my 
collection." 

"  Methinks  a  shadow  would  have  made  a  fitting  door- 
keeper to  such  a  Museum,"  said  I,  "although,  indeed, 
yonder  figure  has  something  strange  and  fantastic  about 
him,  which  suits  well  enough  with  many  of  the  impres- 
sions which  I  have  received  here.  Pray,  who  is  he  ?  " 

While  speaking,  I  gazed  more  scrutinizingly  than  before 
at  the  antiquated  presence  of  the  person  who  had  ad- 
mitted me,  and  who  still  sat  on  his  bench,  with  the  same 
restless  aspect,  and  dim,  confused,  questioning  anxiety, 
that  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  entrance.  At  this  moment 
he  looked  eagerly  towards  us,  and,  half-starting  from  his 
seat,  addressed  me. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION       233 

"  I  beseech  you,  kind  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  cracked,  mel- 
ancholy tone,  "  have  pity  on  the  most  unfortunate  man 
in  the  world !  For  Heaven's  sake  answer  me  a  single 
question !  Is  this  the  town  of  Boston  ?  " 

"  You  have  recognized  him  now,"  said  the  Virtuoso. 
"  It  is  Peter  Rugg,  the  Missing  Man.  I  chanced  to  meet 
him,  the  other  day,  still  in  search  of  Boston,  and  con- 
ducted him  hither ;  and,  as  he  could  not  succeed  in  find- 
ing his  friends,  I  have  taken  him  into  my  service  as 
door-keeper.  He  is  somewhat  too  apt  to  ramble,  but 
otherwise  a  man  of  trust  and  integrity." 

"And  —  might  I  venture  to  ask,"  continued  I,  "to 
whom  am  I  indebted  for  this  afternoon's  gratification  ? " 

The  Virtuoso,  before  replying,  laid  his  hand  upon  an 
antique  dart  or  javelin,  the  rusty  steel  head  of  which 
seemed  to  have  been  blunted,  as  if  it  had  encountered 
the  resistance  of  a  tempered  shield  or  breast-plate. 

"  My  name  has  not  been  without  its  distinction  in  the 
world,  for  a  longer  period  than  that  of  any  other  man 
alive,"  answered  he.  "  Yet  many  doubt  of  my  existence, 
—  perhaps  you  will  do  so  to-morrow.  This  dart,  which 
I  hold  in  my  hand,  was  once  grim  Death's  own  weapon. 
It  served  him  well  for  the  space  of  four  thousand  years. 
But  it  fell  blunted,  as  you  see,  when  he  directed  it  against 
my  breast." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  the  calm  and  cold 
courtesy  of  manner  that  had  characterized  this  singular 
personage  throughout  our  interview.  I  fancied,  it  is 
true,  that  there  was  a  bitterness  indefinably  mingled 
with  his  tone,  as  of  one  cut  off  from  natural  sympathies, 
and  blasted  with  a  doom  that  had  been  inflicted  on  no 
other  human  being,  and  by  the  results  of  which  he  had 
ceased  to  be  human.  Yet,  withal,  it  seemed  one  of  the 
most  terrible  consequences  of  that  doom,  that  the  victim 
no  longer  regarded  it  as  a  calamity,  but  had  finally 
accepted  it  as  the  greatest  good  that  could  have  befallen 
him. 

"  You  are  the  Wandering  Jew !  "  exclaimed  I. 

The  Virtuoso  bowed,  without  emotion  of  any  kind ; 
for,  by  centuries  of  custom,  he  had  almost  lost  the  sense 


234    MOSSES    FROM   AN    OLD    MANSE 

of  strangeness  in  his  fate,  and  was  but  imperfectly  con- 
scious of  the  astonishment  and  awe  with  which  it  affected 
such  as  are  capable  of  death. 

"Your  doom  is  indeed  a  fearful  one!"  said  I,  with 
irrepressible  feeling,  and  a  frankness  that  afterwards 
startled  me ;  "  yet  perhaps  the  ethereal  spirit  is  not  en- 
tirely extinct,  under  all  this  corrupted  or  frozen  mass 
of  earthly  life.  Perhaps  the  immortal  spark  may  yet  be 
rekindled  by  a  breath  of  heaven.  Perhaps  you  may  yet 
be  permitted  to  die,  before  it  is  too  late  to  live  eternally. 
You  have  my  prayers  for  such  a  consummation.  Fare- 
well." 

"  Your  prayers  will  be  in  vain,"  replied  he,  with  a  smile 
of  cold  triumph.  "  My  destiny  is  linked  with  the  reali- 
ties of  earth.  You  are  welcome  to  your  visions  and 
shadows  of  a  future  state ;  but  give  me  what  I  can  see, 
and  touch,  and  understand,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

"  It  is  indeed  too  late,"  thought  I.  "  The  soul  is  dead 
within  him  !  " 

Struggling  between  pity  and  horror,  I  extended  my 
hand,  to  which  the  Virtuoso  gave  his  own,  still  with  the 
habitual  courtesy  of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  without  a 
single  heart-throb  of  human  brotherhood.  The  touch 
seemed  like  ice,  yet  I  know  not  whether  morally  or 
physically.  As  I  departed,  he  bade  me  observe  that  the 
inner  door  of  the  hall  was  constructed  with  the  ivory 
leaves  of  the  gateway  through  which  ^Eneas  and  the 
Sibyl  had  been  dismissed  from  Hades. 


3681 


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